


The Ties That Bind

by ADashOfStarshine (ADashOfInsanity)



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Abuse, Bath Sex, Bathing/Washing, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Prison Abuse, Unhygienic conditions, switching POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 56,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27217027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADashOfInsanity/pseuds/ADashOfStarshine
Summary: Prince Jarvan IV has always considered himself to have a resolve as strong as Demacian steel. Yet, as his father starts to waver on his strict approach to the Mage Threat, he is forced to affirm to beliefs by visiting the most feared mage of all - Sylas of Dregbourne.-At first, Sylas loathes this rude Princeling that comes to gawk at him in his cell. However, soon he comes to realise the unique opportunity before him. What starts as an annoyance, may just be the ticket out he needs to start his revolution.What neither man anticipates, is falling in love in the process.
Relationships: Jarvan Lightshield IV/Sylas (League of Legends)
Comments: 56
Kudos: 99





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WaterSeraphim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterSeraphim/gifts).



It had been repeated to him, time and time again, that Demacia’s ruling classes should be like its gleaming white walls - strong, resolute and impenetrable. Demacia’s walls would not crumble under the pressure of outsiders. Neither would they fall as long as the people of Demacia remained united. Yet, and it was a yet that Jarvan considered more with each day, those walls were not without conflict within. The menace of magic was causing rift after rift within his proud nation, and as any good general knew – one rift within a troop could spell defeat. Many rifts within an entire nation… he hated to think about it. However, he was forced to do just that. The conflict within the walls had indeed reflected onto its ruling classes, just as his tutors had always said. Not just any member of the ruling classes too, but his own father, the King – the very epitome of everything Demacian. Some suggested that age had softened King Jarvan the Third’s resolve, but his son refused to believe that. He simply could not, or would not, accept that his father’s stance on magic had weakened over the years. The King knew full well the threat that mages and their treacherous ilk posed to the safety of Demacia. Yet why then was he lightening their senses? Why had the majority of executions become life sentences or exiling? Why were the mages being sent away when, in the future, they could turn straight around and pose a threat once more? The only means to stop a threat was to rid the world of it entirely - so why weren’t they?

What Jarvan hated about this matter most, was the fact that when his father had started to doubt himself, so did he. As a dutiful son, general and Demacian, it had been ingrained within him to show the utmost respect and loyalty to his King. But if the King was showing indecision, if his beliefs were wavering, then what was Jarvan to do? It had become clearer with each passing day that he needed another source to affirm his beliefs, so he could resume his duty with a clear mind and heart. Then he could return to his father’s side and shore up everyone’s beliefs in the true path to keeping Demacia strong. To let them all know that the Mage Threat still had to be dealt with by any means necessary. And what better place to affirm his beliefs in the Mage Threat than in Demacia’s highest security prison? The place where the most wicked threats to society were contained for the protection of all, would surely confirm everything he had believed about magic and its blight upon this land. So, he had sent an errand boy ahead to let the Prison Warden know he would be visiting, what he wanted to see there, and to plan accordingly for his arrival.

His entrance was met by a full parade of guards in freshly-polished armour. He was escorted inside with a trio of his own Royal Guards, and met the Prison Warden – a stern silver haired woman with plate armour far finer than her employees’. The Prison Warden had assigned her highest-regarded Captain to be Jarvan’s guide to the facility, apologising profusely that she could not do it herself due to needing to process a fresh batch of inmates. Jarvan accepted her apology and thanked her for her hard work towards making Demacia a safer place. This appeared to delight her. Once all pleasantries had been undertaken, she presented Jarvan with a small golden box, just large enough to fit into his palm.

“What is this for Warden?” he asked.

“For your trip through the prison your Highness,” she replied, before giving him yet another bow and departing with her men.

Jarvan stared at it for a moment. It resembled a lady’s trinket box, created to store her rings or perhaps notes from a lover. However, when he flipped the catch and opened the thing, he found it full of fragrant white granular crystals. Smelling salts, undoubtedly.

“Does this facility have issues with odour?” Jarvan asked the Captain who had been left behind to guide him.

“No, your highness,” the Captain replied immediately, “The facility is without any sources of foul airs or odours. The prisoners however, can be quite pungent.”

The contrary nature of that statement registered with Jarvan, just for a moment, until the Captain cleared his throat and stated:

“Please, your highness, allow me to escort you to view the cell you requested.”

Jarvan, his three royal guards, the Captain and three prison guards formed a procession of clinking armour as they descended down a nearby staircase. Despite the smelling salts, Jarvan couldn’t help but note the staircases and passages they passed through were both clean and well lit. The infrastructure here was clearly well-maintained, however he was getting the inclination he was being taken the roundabout route through the building. For one, they had yet to see any prisoners. He wasn’t disappointed by that. Jarvan hadn’t come here to see the masses, but perhaps the worst out of their entire ill-meaning lot. This prison held one of the worst offenders in recent Demacian History. No crime matched had matched his since the days of the Rune War – a mass-murderer, and a magical one at that. If meeting any man was going to affirm Jarvan’s belief in the pure evil that was magic, then Sylas of Dregbourne was going to be that man. The most dangerous mage in living history, so perilous in fact that he had to be bound in petricite - the very magic-suppressing substance that formed the walls of the Royal Castle. Merely listening to the tales of this man’s deeds enraged Jarvan into action, be it taking to the conflict himself or providing greater resources to the Mageseekers. Why no one had executed the man was madness, yet, at least the serial killer had some use to him down in this gaol. Jarvan was sure that one look at the monster would be enough to convince him of magic’s evil for a lifetime.

“My apologies your highness, but we’re going to have to pass some holding cells in a bit,” said the Captain, “The inmates can get a bit rowdy when people pass by but just ignore them.”

“Noted, thank you Captain” Jarvan replied, box of smelling salts still in one hand.

They approached a large set of stone doors, guarded by a dozen more prison guards. Some of their retinue swapped places with those at the door, as the stone was pushed slowly open.

The stench was immediate. Only preceded by the sheer blast of noise contained within. Sobbing, screaming, wailing, begging, it was a cacophony of human suffering. Jarvan offered some of the salts to his guards as they stepped inside, each eagerly taking some of the powdered crystals into their gauntlets to drive off that overwhelming stink. Once again, the passageway between the two blocks of cells were pristine. Guards walked up and down freshly swept stone, yet beyond the bars, beyond the reach of the torchlight… No general should shy from the stench of fresh corpses, or post-battle cadavers, but this… This was a vile mixture of blood, grime and faeces. If there had once been straw or any sort of cover to the bare stone floors of the cells, they had long been trampled in muck. Pale faces and hands, like many spectres, pressed up against the bars, reaching for the guards only to find them out of reach. Many dissonant voices called out from the darkness, begging for food, for water, for their mother or father.

“Ignore the mages sire,” said the Captain, “They will try anything to weasel their way out of captivity.”

Jarvan nodded in understanding, focusing his attention on the door at the far end of the room. Beside this, a guard in ensemble of armour and an apothecary’s tunic was pouring a thick gloopy substance out of a large barrel and into many individual jugs.

“That is the elixir we use to keep these mages in check,” the Captain explained as they walked down the clean section of stone, “It removes their magic for the safety of themselves and their fellow prisoners.”

The guard in charge of the elixir bowed low as they approached. However, just as Jarvan went to thank him for his service to Demacia, a surprisingly familiar voice rang out from a nearby cell.

“General… General! It’s me! Cadet Willows, don’t you recognise me? I was at Wrenwall!”

Cadet Willows? Yes, he knew that name, one of the younger soldiers who he’d led against the dragon Yvva. Ignoring everything the Captain had told him, just for a moment, Jarvan turned to look in the direction of that voice.

“Your highness! General! It’s me, please!”

Jarvan stared at the hollow face pressed up against the bars. There were deep shadows around his eyes, his frame emaciated compared to last time Jarvan had seen it. But yes, yes it was Cadet Willows. He would recognise that face anywhere after seeing him ever so bravely raise his bow against an enemy he stood no chance of defeating. What was he doing in there? Cadet Willows wasn’t a mage, if he’d had magic, he’d surely have used it in that battle to defend his troop from dragon fire.

“Please ignore the prisoners your highness,” directed the Captain, “Mages will say anything for an ounce of pity.”

“General please, my life is Demacia’s! It always has, it always will!”

Cadet Willows wasn’t a mage, Jarvan was sure of that. His imprisonment was frankly an insult to the service this Cadet had given to Demacia. He pulled the Captain to one side, out of reach of all those grasping hands, and ordered a briefing on the cadet as to why he was in this place. The Captain nodded reluctantly before sending one of his guards off to the Warden’s Office.

“Hold fast Cadet,” Jarvan told the man, “I will talk to the Warden on your behalf.”

“Oh, thank you!” Willows exclaimed, “Thank you General, oh thank you. Demacia’s Light bless you always!”

“And you too Cadet,” Jarvan responded, “I will not have your service to Demacia taken in vain.”

The Captain didn’t look too impressed at this interruption; but he wasn’t going to speak against his prince. Jarvan re-joined the group of guards and allowed them to escort him towards the next set of doors. These led to a wide set of stone stairs, descending even deeper underground into pitch black darkness. Evidently the depths were not lit, for the guards took torches off the wall to illuminate the way ahead. Jarvan could no longer hear anything but the sound of armoured footfalls on stone. The prison guards had their eyes on the steps beneath their feet, notably walking a little slower, whilst the royal guards looked curiously at their peers. The Captain however, didn’t seem deterred by the long slow plod underground and therefore Jarvan kept his gaze fixed on him. At the base of the extensive stairs were no additional guards. Instead, an almighty stone door, distinctly similar to many in the castle, stood reinforced with metal banding. The slight shimmer of the stone in the torchlight made Jarvan absolutely sure this door was made of petricite.

“Captain,” one of the prison guards suddenly piped up. Her voice echoed around the room as if they had stepped into a cave.

“Yes Lieutenant,” the Captain replied, “What is it?”

“Earlier we attempted to clean up the containment area for his highness’ arrival as expected,” the Lieutenant reported, “We also gave the prisoner the basin you requested but…”

She glanced at her colleagues, who remained staring at their feet.

“But what Lieutenant?” the Captain demanded. Jarvan watched on, curious as to what this was about.

“The prisoner…” said the Lieutenant, “He…he wouldn’t give the basin back. In fact, he wouldn’t get out the basin and we didn’t have permission to go in his cell, so we just left it there. What I am trying to say sir, is that, the prisoner might still be in the basin. He also wasn’t clothed when we left sir.”

“What you are trying to say,” replied the Captain, an edge of a growl in his voice, “That the Crown Prince of Demacia is about to face our prisoner whilst he is _nude_ in a laundry basin?”

“Y-Yes Captain,” the Lieutenant mumbled, “Though he might have clothed himself over the last hour?”

The Captain let out a long sigh.

“I do not care about the prisoner’s state of dress,” Jarvan told everyone assembled there, “His clothing or lack of, does not change the fact it is he who I have come here to see. Rather than fight over the details, allow me entry.”

The Lieutenant looked very grateful at his words, giving a little bow as she backed away. The Captain merely nodded, gesturing for his guards to open the doors.

“Only his highness may enter the containment area, such is the orders of the Warden,” the Captain proclaimed, “We shall remain stationed outside until you have seen your fill.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Jarvan replied, turning to his own guards, “Stay out here, I surely won’t need long.”

The containment area was larger than expected. Jarvan was given a torch as he entered the dome shaped room, the light only reaching as far as a set of bronze-coloured bars that stood about two-thirds across the chamber. This room also smelled, far less than the holding cells upstairs, but there was a definite scent of mould and excrement on the air. Stepping forwards, Jarvan’s footfalls bounced off the walls in an echo that resembled the ringing of metal on metal. As he drew closer, he spotted a faint flicker of light at the far end of the cell – a candle or a dying torch perhaps. He approached it, though stopped a couple of feet from the bars, wary of grabbing hands as demonstrated in the cells above.

“Light another torch, would you?” said a slightly gravelly voice from within the cell, “They haven’t bothered to top me up in here for a week.”

Jarvan wanted to snap at the voice for speaking like that to a prince, before realising the voice had no idea who he was if he couldn’t see. Jarvan also wanted to see Sylas of Dregbourne, assuming that was who this was, so opted for lighting two torches attached to the bars of the cell. He stepped back immediately once the deed was done.

“Ah, there you are.”

The containment cell was a mostly empty stone room full of rotten straw, filth and what looked like tiny bones. In its very centre, freshly spotlighted by the torches, was a large wooden laundry basin. Well, Jarvan assumed it was a laundry basin by the Captain’s description – he’d never had to engage with such an item. It was a wooden container, much like a bucket but larger. Enforced with bands like a barrel, it was an old but sturdy piece of woodwork, currently sopping wet as a fully grown man sat in it like a comically undersized bathtub. It was barely big enough to fit the man’s torso. He was seated in it with both arms and legs sticking out, the water covering only his stomach and pelvic regions. He too was wet all over, the remaining water now a disgusting filmy grey with bits of green floating atop the surface. His hair dangled over the floor in sodden grimy ropes, he lay with his head and shoulders leant back, to at least get some of himself in the tiny tub. It seemed unlikely he could get his hands in the vessel anyway. The immense stone shackles and chains were each bigger than the basin themselves and kept his hands rooted towards the floor. They also must explain the mage’s rather chiselled physique. It would take great upper body strength to haul around those chains and the enormous metal collar that had been affixed around the prisoner’s neck. Jarvan could appreciate the physique of a fighter, even if that fighter disgusted him to the core. Yet this man certainly had that… a good physique. It was hard not to see it when he was completely nude except for the little water covering his lower quarters. Jarvan made a point of not looking there and instead focussed on the man’s absolutely disgusting toenails. Thick and yellow, they looked like they could saw through wood if he tried.

“My, my,” commented Sylas of Dregbourne, “Excessively gold armour, a spear-up-the-arse posture, and the ability to command yourself into my humble lodgings. You must be the prince they made me wash for. For what do I owe the honour, your highness?”

Jarvan glared at him. So, this was Sylas of Dregbourne – the mage so brazen he would address his prince in such crude terms and assume that this was an honour meant for him.

“This is no gift, Mage,” he retorted, “I merely came to view. Seeing is believing, as they say.”

Sylas raised an eyebrow at him, his voice now equally venomous:

“If you were looking for a zoo, you’re in the wrong place Princeling. Here they keep the animals on the wrong side of the bars.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jarvan demanded.

“Didn’t you see the rest of the prison?” Sylas replied, “Who are the ones beating and starving people here? Who’s letting children waste away whilst they cry out for their mamas? Why are so many innocents being eaten alive by mould and vermin whilst everywhere else is so…tidy? Not the people in the cages, that’s for sure.”

He gestured to the area behind Jarvan with a clink of chains. Indeed, the rest of the containment area was spotless whilst his cell was filled with filth. Yes, the difference was striking, but he was forgetting one key fact.

“There are no innocents here,” Jarvan told him, “This place is for imprisoning the worst society has to offer. It keeps the people of Demacia safe from monsters like _you_ who’d slay or control them.”

Sylas let out a laugh, low and cold, shifting and making the water slosh around him.

“Oh, I know you’ve found your scapegoats already,” he agreed, “But what keeps them safe from those who _actually_ slay or control them? You know, the extensive militia that patrols their streets, the aristocracy who would starve the common folk to fill their banquet tables, the royalty who would stand in their lofty towers whilst-“

“ENOUGH!” Jarvan ordered, “What would a mass-murderer understand about my family’s love for Demacia? The tireless work my family and many others do to maintain the welfare and glory of this kingdom! We will not rest until the evils of magic have been exterminated from this land! Every magic-“

“Yes, yes. Every magic user is evil,” Sylas cut across him, “Just like everyone who wields a spear must be a shining example of morality. And, of course, every archer likes the colour green and every sword user darns their socks on a Tuesday. Next time someone puts a spear in your side, remember, you can’t blame them because a person’s tool _must_ dictate their goodness in this world!”

Jarvan was momentarily rendered silent and he hated it. That argument was of course ludicrous. Swords, bows and spears were just weapons, just tools that were used by good or bad people. There were no instinctive morals that came with a weapon – that was entirely based on its use! And Sylas was trying to tell him that magic was a tool? That it was as blameless as a spear? What poppycock.

“Magic isn’t a blameless tool,” he retorted, “Magic is innate to a person, it warps their very perception of reality and turns them into a curse upon this land!”

Sylas considered him for a moment before commenting:

“You’re very punchable.”

“Excuse me?!” Jarvan shouted.

“Has anyone ever punched you your highness?” Sylas asked, “I imagine there’d be quite a queue to do so.”

“Yes, of a matter of fact, someone has,” Jarvan retorted, “But…why do I even bother answering you, you no good piece of-“

“Ah, so should we not be locking up everyone with hands?” Sylas continued, “Dangerous innate objects of war, aren’t they? Why, if we only had citizens with no hands, no one would ever get punched, or hit or use a knife to stab anyone. But oh, I forget, humans are _born_ with them, aren’t they? No control over whether they have hands or not. Why, having hands must warp their entire perception of reality – they could punch someone any time they wanted.”

“I am not listening to your nonsense Mage,” Jarvan snapped. Yes, he could understand where Sylas was going with that. He was saying that mages were born with their magic, just like they were born with hands, and both were equally as dangerous given the right provocation. However, punishing people for being born was utterly ridiculous! That would be genocide and… wait, no, magic was far more dangerous than any hand could ever be!

He promptly told Sylas that.

“Hands sign off orders to go to war,” Sylas reminded him, “Condemning hundreds of thousands of people to death. Not just soldiers, but civilians, innocents… But who would do such a thing? Who could be the most terrible mass-murderers of them all? Oh wait, I know…. _Kings_.”

“Silence!” ordered Jarvan, “No one ever wants to go to war. No one…”

Sylas gave him a knowing look that made Jarvan’s rage boil white hot. Ok, maybe some people did purposefully go to war. Maybe he and his father had signed off on battles that got thousands killed, but it was for the good of Demacia! This had nothing to do with the topic at hand – mages, their evil, and how they needed to be stopped!

“Don’t distract me from your own immorality Mage!” he declared, “No amount of chatter will detract from the fact you are a mass-murderer and that never would have happened without your magic.”

“And how do you know that?” Sylas retorted.

Jarvan glowered at him. He stared straight back, infuriatingly unafraid.

“I _believe_ -“

“How do you _know_ ,” Sylas repeated, “How do you know anything Princeling when all you’ve done is spout off propaganda previously spouted by your elders. Were you there? Did you see what I was accused of? You said it yourself, seeing is believing. Have you ever met the evil forces of nature you abhor so much? Or did Daddy just hire someone to tell you scary bedtime stories about the nasty mages hiding under your bed?”

Jarvan didn’t have to put up with this and he wasn’t.

“That is no way to address your prince,” he scolded, “I came here to politely observe and you have proved just as foul as you smell. I won’t waste any more time here.”

He turned with swish of his cloak and marched back towards the door. His footsteps rang even louder on the stonework with his enraged stomping. However, it didn’t seem Sylas of Dregbourne was done with him yet.

“Hey! Princeling!”

Jarvan turned, snapping:

“What?!”

“I’ve got something else for you to observe.”

Before Jarvan could react, Sylas stood up, out of the water had been concealing him. Jarvan threw one gauntlet over his eyes a moment too late.

“Fuck off,” Jarvan told him, unamused by this frankly adolescent display. He didn’t wait around to be admonished for his unprincely language. Striding out the room, the guards couldn’t close the petricite doors soon enough. Still fuming, Jarvan glared at all the guards around him, including the one who had not been there previously.

“Y-Your highness,” the new guard stammered before his prince’s rage, “The warden has-has the paperwork you wanted and…well, there’s been a messenger from the King. His Majesty wants you back to meet-meet with a prospective bride.”

Oh fantastic…if this day couldn’t get any more infuriating! He marched the entire entourage of guards back through the prison, following the same route so there was no need to receive directions from anyone. Even ignoring the stench of the holding cells this time, he stormed his way back up to the entrance, where the warden was waiting him for a piece of folded parchment. She handed it to Jarvan, who took one look at the top few lines of text.

**Cadet E. Willows. Mother convicted of Witchcraft – all offspring taken as preventative measure against further magecraft.**

Oh, for fuck’s sake, the man had never used magic! He knew it!

“I want Cadet Willows out of there and at in the Royal Barracks by sundown,” he demanded of the warden, “I expect him to be given a proper apology and a set of clean clothes for his arrival. I also expect, that next time you imprison one of _my_ soldiers, that you inform me before you subject him to this!”

The Prison Warden looked shocked at his outrage but swiftly pulled herself together.

“Yes, of course your highness. We apologise, we didn’t know he was one of your men. We should have-“

“Less excuses, more action,” Jarvan told her, “By sundown, do you understand?”

“Yes, your highness!”

It took many hours for his mood to abate to anything resembling calm. Unfortunately for those around him, those hours included the frankly ludicrous meeting with Lady Petunia Bluewhistle, who could frankly jump in the moat for all he cared. Garen, bless him, had tried to cheer him into a sensible mood as he fussed with the awful cravat he was supposed to wear for such encounters. Of course, he was the perfect prince his father wanted during the audience. However, Petunia Bluewhistle had all the interest and personality of a dried flower and Jarvan couldn’t wait to see the last of her. Sparring with Garen relieved some of the rage built up inside him, but he couldn’t bring himself to unleash his full fury upon his best friend. Instead he opted to glare at everyone who passed by before shutting himself in his quarters. He stayed there, brooding, until a nervous knock sounded at the door to his private study.

“What is it?” he snapped.

“Cadet Willows, from the Royal Barracks, here to see you sire,” said an errand girl. Jarvan blinked at her, suddenly remembering the other, slightly less infuriating, thing he’d found in the gaol.

“Let him in,” Jarvan replied, “And send tea and refreshment up.”

The errand girl curtseyed and departed, leaving the door ajar for Cadet Willows to make his entrance.

Having been provided with a washroom and a clean set of clothes, the soldier was looking remarkably better for his little time spent out of prison. He was still unhealthily thin, his eyes still sunken and surrounded by shadow. However, no sooner was he in the room before his general, then he sunk to his knees in a prostrate bow. Face towards the marble, arms outstretched, he burst into tears as he knelt before his Crown Prince.

“At ease, Cadet,” Jarvan told him, but Willows seemed too overwhelmed to comply. He could hear him weep in earnest now, occasionally managing a stream of ‘thank yous’, ‘generals’ and ‘your highnesses’. Jarvan had been on enough battlefields, witnessed enough aftermaths, to be no stranger to a man’s desperate sobbing. Cadet Willows’ whole body was shaking as he pressed himself against the cold stone floor. This was a man so taken by gratitude that he didn’t know what to do with himself. Jarvan had met enough terrified soldiers to know that sometimes you had to break rank, step down a level, and offer them a more human reassurance to help them compose themselves.

“You’re very welcome, Willows. Please join me for some refreshment. Your fight is over soldier, now we rest and recuperate.”

Willows looked up to see Jarvan offering him a hand. He looked at it in disbelief for a moment before allowing Jarvan to help him to his feet. No sooner had Willows got up, his knees threatened to buckle and send him tumbling floor-wards. Jarvan helped him towards the nearest seat – a set of comfortable couches he used for fireside talks with friends. No sooner had he helped Willows sit, than the refreshments arrived – hot tea and plenty of white Demacian sugar buns, the perfect fuel to get a man back on his feet whilst maintaining that homely air of baked goods. The maid poured both men tea before setting down the pot and vacating the room. Jarvan made sure Willows had a sugar bun on his plate, before attending to his own tea. The Cadet looked like he needed a whole batch of sugar buns in him before he could even think about going back to active duty. Needless to say, the first one was gone in a matter of seconds and Jarvan gestured for him to take as many as he wanted.

“Y-Your highness,” Willows managed, after two and a half buns and an entire cup of tea, “Your highness, may I speak openly?”

In any other circumstance, this would be a bold statement for a cadet. But given everything Willows had been through, Jarvan understood.

“Of course Willows, please.”

Willows took a deep breath and started on his second cup of tea.

“I really want to say… thank you. Thank you Sire, for being there… For recognising me. For getting me out of that hell. I-I understand the role that such places as-as that play for the security of Demacia but… I would take three Wrenwalls over going back there again even for a night.”

Three Wrenwalls? Jarvan had seen the man’s physical state, that was obvious. Yet his mental state must be in a place of utmost torment to want to go back to such a desperate battle, time and time again, rather than spend a single night in prison.

“Please, tell me what you can,” Jarvan asked, his anger diminishing as he surveyed the wreck of a man who had once been one of his bravest young marksmen. It was hard to be furious when you had such a piteous sight right in front of you.

“Living there is like torture sire,” Willows told him, “There’s no heating, no bathrooms, not even a hole or a bucket or anything. They threw water at us some times, but it was so hard to get a drink except that elixir. They’d throw bread at us and watch us fight over it like animals. We weren’t people to them your highness, we were just rats in a barrel, to amuse the guards until we died.”

Just looking at him, Jarvan could believe that. Willows didn’t look like he’d seen a hot meal in weeks, let alone the sun. The sheer stench of the holding pens had been almost unbearable to travel past, what torture it must be to live in it!

“That place,” Willows managed, “It’s…not just mages in there sire. I have all due respect for the Mageseekers I promise, but…it seems they just gather up everyone in the area around the mage and imprison them too. My mother... They took me because my mother was accused of being a witch.”

He gave a little shudder.

“Was she?” Jarvan asked, before he could stop himself. Willows looked up at him with tears in his eyes.

“She… she wasn’t!” he proclaimed, “My mother wouldn’t hurt a fly! She worked as a midwife sire; she served a whole district. But…but she had…this tincture she used. Having children, it kills so many poor ladies and she couldn’t let any more innocent Demacian die so…this tincture made the childbirth easier. This rich merchant found out about it, tried to bully her into giving the recipe to him so he could sell it. We found-found out he planned to kill her if she didn’t give it over. But…but she couldn’t. The tincture was just spring water sire the…the rest was magic. When he realised this, the merchant called the Mageseekers and now… so many ladies and their new-borns are going to die without her help! My mother was magical but she wasn’t evil! She saved so many people you must believe me! I know my mother; she was the kindest woman you’d ever meet. I swear I believe all the stories; I know we’ve got to get mages off the streets. But after hearing everyone in that prison, after listening to the children who got rounded up just because they accidentally made their hands sparkle… So many people died in there despite just living normal innocent civilian lives. I think there’s good magic and bad magic, just like there’s good people and bad people sire. It’s not as cut and dry as we were all made to think.”

Willows looked down at his tea, as if realising that he might have re-condemned himself with what he’d just said. Little did he know, it was the second time Jarvan had heard that line of reasoning today. Willows’ recollection had been far more earnest and heartfelt than that good for nothing murderers’, but it was hard to believe that an innocent hardworking cadet and a despicable killer would share the same opinion…unless there was a good reason for it. Jarvan tried not to let his frustration show and simply supplied encouraging comments to Willows’ recollections of his time in captivity. By the time evening came, he had a vivid picture of the mages and non-mages alike who had died from eating mould of the walls, or drowning from being force fed too much elixir. It was undeniable that being in that gaol was the most severe of punishments. Yet, the question remained now as to whether its occupants deserved it. Willows hadn’t. The poor people rounded up on suspicion of being mages who weren’t actually magic, they didn’t either. Deep down, Jarvan knew that Willows’ mother, the midwife who wanted to help women survive childbirth, didn’t deserve to die in such a place. Of course, he believed Willows’ story about her. Why would he doubt one of his own men, one so honestly grateful as Willows? However, his mother had been a mage…but she was a good mage? Yes? No! Such a thing didn’t exist! It couldn’t! Using magic was evil!

_“Just like everyone who wields a spear must be a shining example of morality. And, of course, every archer likes the colour green and every sword user darns their socks on a Tuesday_.”

The words returned to him and he felt the anger rise. For the sake of everything bright, why was he listening to a murderer?! Why was said murderer saying the same thing as a trusted cadet?! Why were they both trying to erase the concrete boundaries that made law enforcement so simple?! Why did they have to make him question his resolve like this? He’d gone to that prison to achieve the exact opposite! After dismissing Willows to get some rest, Jarvan started pacing his quarters, getting ever more irritable. This couldn’t be it. He couldn’t accept that Demacia, the shining beacon of righteousness in Runeterra, would harm innocent citizens. It was impossible! But… ugh this wouldn’t do. He needed more information on this to make an informed decision. Years of strict instruction and tutelage couldn’t be exposed as wrong overnight. But neither could the words of two men, who had never met, but both suffered in that awful prison. He needed to know, to see, to learn more. He was…

He was…

Fuck it, he was visiting Sylas of Dregbourne once more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylas wonders why the Crown Prince keeps coming back to his cell. Perhaps he could use this unexpected visitor to his advantage?

In all honesty, he hadn’t expected to see the princeling again. After offending his delicate sensibilities once, Sylas had been certain that the man would go crying back to his royal father with tales of that nasty mage lurking in the basement. The Crown Prince of Demacia had been every bit the brainwashed piece of pompous shit that he’d imagined. Spewing propaganda he’d no doubt been fed from birth, the prince had probably never had an original thought in his life. It was immensely entertaining in a way, to take apart every one of his so dearly held beliefs with very simple logic. The expression on his face was glorious. It was a good look for him. The transition from rage, to shock, to disbelief, to confusion, and then back to rage again, was quite frankly the most beautiful thing he’d seen whilst locked down here. It had been sad in a way, as the prince stomped off, that he’d never get to see it again. Or so he’d thought.

It was difficult to keep track of time in his cell. It wasn’t as if he had a regular rotation of guards to use to mark the hours. He was also currently short on rats – their sleep patterns often dictating his own, but not when he was hungry. Rain was useful. When it poured outside, he could use the steady drip-drip of his cell flooding to mark the passing of time. He reckoned it took roughly an hour for the water to find the crack in his ceiling and then, depending on the downpour, it remained like that for a good few days. However, judging by the fact it didn’t feel too long, and the man barely looked any different, it couldn’t have been more than forty-eight hours between the prince’s first visit and his second.

He should thank him really, Sylas mused, as he watched the prince storm away once more. He hadn’t experienced this much fun since he’d had guards. It was easy, to pick apart his insistence of ‘but so-and-so said this’ and ‘the royal family does this’, with simple fact. Judging by his reactions, the prince had indeed seen the rest of the prison and been utterly appalled by it. He had got it into his head that some of the people in here were innocents, but apparently those people weren’t mages. They were just careless mistakes. At times, Sylas longed to drive his fist into that gold-plated skull of his. But no, he had to settle for picking apart the swiftly-rotting corpse of his beliefs. Each victorious statement, each argument shattered, a tender scrap of meat off its bones. Ah damn it, Sylas was so _hungry_.

Why had the Crown Prince come back a third time? Hell, if he knew, but Sylas welcomed him back with a sly grin and barrage of deadly common sense. The prince was less demanding that time, still angry of course, but he spent less extolling the sins of mage-kind. Instead, he ended up splittingly livid as he defended the virtues of his forefathers as Sylas gave him his two coppers on the Royal Family and their thin veneer of respectability. This was truly a sight to behold. His initial speechlessness had been rather handsome – Sylas wasn’t going to deny the prince had some rather attractive facial features. They were greatly improved, however, by that look of dumbfounded disbelief. Certainly no one had dared badmouth the ruling family in front of it’s prince that badly. Well, if he was a lesser being to be gawked at in a cage, at least Sylas had proved to be something new and exciting. Perhaps that was why the prince kept coming back? Was he a masochist seeking new experiences? Did he get off on being proved so thoroughly wrong?

“You’re insane!” The prince had declared when he posed those questions. Sylas merely laughed as he stormed off once more.

The fourth visit. Now the fourth visit had been interesting. Sylas didn’t know how long had passed between the third and fourth, but it felt much longer than the last wait. Reaching the point where he didn’t think he’d see the prince again, Sylas focussed on the everyday tasks of working out what to eat and whether he could broaden the rain-crack in the ceiling. Of course, he didn’t go without a visitor in that time. However, winding up the princeling invoked a different sort of satisfaction than helping a little lost soul with her glowing problem.

The day he decided that three times must have been it, the prince surprised him yet once more with a visit. And what a sight for sore eyes he was! Sylas sat up as he heard the familiar scrape of stone on stone. The doors to his humble abode parting just enough to let a familiar figure inside. Or was it a familiar figure? The Crown Prince generally appeared as a manifestation of gold and spikes - all gleaming in the torchlight. But not now. Not today. He entered the room, bringing with him the scent of something floral and undoubtedly expensive. His hair was groomed back so thoroughly you could see the indentations left by the comb. He’d clearly had a shave, his chin a whole shade lighter, noticeable even in the torchlight. Some armour remained; it was truly un-Demacian not to go around looking like you expected a battle at any moment. However, the chest plate, the greaves and the boots he was wearing were far lighter armour than his usual gaudy shell. Instead, he was wearing a form-fitted white tunic with fine embroidery and little gold embellishment here and there. An equally fine cape emphasised the broadness of his shoulders, the strength of his upper body. Whilst it was no doubt built on the suffering of others, the prince certainly had a fine physique. Sylas could appreciate the physique of a fighter, even if that fighter disgusted him to the core. Yet this man certainly had that… a good physique. He also appreciated the tightness of those breeches. A complimentary state of dress all round – but why?

“I’m flattered,” Sylas commented, sat on his basin and leaning against the righthand wall, “You didn’t need to go to so much trouble your highness.”

“You know full well this isn’t for you,” the Prince retorted. There was already an edge of irritability in his voice that Sylas hadn’t had the chance to put there yet. He was frowning as he paced up and down, a foot away from Sylas’ cell.

“Well whoever it was for, clearly didn’t appreciate it if they left you in such a state,” Sylas commented, “I’ve seen executions called for less.”

“Oh, if only,” the Prince growled, then he seemed to catch up with himself, “I mean, no. What am I talking about?”

“I have no idea,” Sylas replied, “Wishing you could get rid of someone?”

Whilst he was sure the prince would love to get rid of him, he didn’t seem to be the source of his bad mood this time. Sylas could easily change that, but he wasn’t one to deny a glimpse at the outside world. What had riled up Demacia’s prince so much that he would briefly consider an execution to get rid of them? He’d love to know. A little more information to use never hurt anyone, except your enemies.

“In a way,” the Prince retorted, “But it’s not a simple matter of telling them to go away. It’s not a someone, it’s a process. And it’s not a process to be taken lightly.”

Sylas had no idea what he was on about.

“I’d offer for you to take a seat and tell me about it,” he replied, “But I don’t get the luxury of seats, and as you like to remind me so often, you’re the one that gives orders.”

He made a show of inspecting the heavy manacle around his left wrist as the prince stopped his pacing. There was a moment where they simply stared at each other. Before, to Sylas’ great surprise, the prince sat on the floor. He truly did want to talk about it. Enough that he’d follow an instruction from a prisoner and sit on bare stone. For this brief obedience, Sylas gave him the honour of actually turning to face him. From this angle, the prince looked rather weary. Frustrated too, as he sought to bore holes in the stone through the intensity of his gaze.

“I have been assigned the choice between two fates,” the prince proclaimed, without any further provocation, “And each condemn me to life of loveless matrimony.”

Matrimony?

Was that what had got him so worked up? The prospect of marriage? Sylas bit back the urge to taunt him about ‘royal problems’. If this got too ridiculous, he’d go back on his restraint. But for now, if the prince was opening up, maybe there would be something he could use.

“My father and his generals are not taking No Matrimony as an option,” the prince continued, “So I have been left to choose between selecting a bride for a loveless marriage, or having _them_ choose a bride for a loveless marriage. I have met dozens of noblewomen from all over Demacia these last few months and I neither wish to spend the rest of my life with them, nor subject them to the same fate. The one woman I could bear, perhaps even enjoy, spending my life beside… I cannot condemn her to that existence when she deserves much better. I would not see her light fade beneath the pressure of being Demacia’s Princess.”

Her light? What an intriguing turn of phrase. He could only think of one Demacian noblewoman with an affinity for light. Not that Sylas knew many noblewomen.

“If I choose a woman, then I am the one assigning her misery,” the prince continued, “I will obey in marrying, but I cannot pretend to love her. If I allow my father and the Generals to do it…then I have less blame on my shoulders in the selection process, but is it not my fault that I let them choose in the first place?”

He glanced up at Sylas.

“I think the fault lies in the system that dictates you have to marry,” Sylas replied, “Is it not the expectations placed upon you by Demacian society that forces you to? And the same pressure means you must condemn one of these women too?”

He appeared to give this a moment of thought.

“Yes…yes, it is what is expected of a Prince of Demacia as long as history can tell,” the prince stated, “Whilst I am sure some couplings resulted in love, there must have been untold generations of misery.”

“All because their forebearers told them it was the right thing to do,” Sylas added, “Because Demacia said it was right…and yet. So many innocent young men and women have suffered due to the state they were born into. Completely beyond their control, their fates are thrust upon them. That doesn’t seem very Demacian, making innocents suffer… but we understand differently, don’t we?”

As the prince nodded, Sylas felt like a thief who’d found a key on the window sill of the house he intended to burgling. He’d located a point of entry where his arguments would land. Using the prince’s own troubles, and the same rhetoric surrounding equality for all, he would be able to slowly, ever so slowly, creep his influence inside.

“I’m far from an expert on this matter,” Sylas continued, “You’re the royal after all. But even a commoner like me can see this is unfair upon you and your future bride. Why must you be forced to suffer because of how you were born?”

The prince was nodding along as if Sylas spoke gospel. The sight was delightful.

“I didn’t expect you of all people to offer sympathy,” the prince told him, “Or listen for a matter of fact.”

“Well, I didn’t expect you to tell me anything,” Sylas replied, “I mean, why confide in me?”

“You’re not in a position to tell anyone,” the prince reminded him, “It’s not exactly like you can report my reluctance to do my duty.”

“Very true,” Sylas acknowledged, “And as for why the sympathy…well, if you’d listened to me, you’d know I’m not exactly a pitiless monster.”

For the first time since they’d met, the prince did not angrily stomp out of their meeting. In fact, he left in a state of quiet contemplation, actually thinking over what Sylas had said to him. Sylas meanwhile, remained sat on his basin, thinking about what the next step might be. It turned out that yelling at your ‘betters’ was immensely fun, but it didn’t yield the best results. No, what had just been proved here was the fact that this princeling reacted best to being buttered up, pitied, cossetted… Typical royalty really, but at least here he had the chance to sow the seeds of his own freedom. Yes. The path ahead was clear. Firstly, endear himself to the prince in his time of crisis. Sylas would make himself vital to the prince’s wellbeing – make their happinesses one and the same. Once he was considered a ‘friend’, he would then point out how much leaving him in a cage was surely impeding their friendship and all joy going forth. The prince would want him out, and what a prince wanted, he got. Much simpler than trying to get a lower-ranked aristocrat to smuggle him forbidden texts. 

Yes. His plan was just that – cold-hearted manipulation. He had no intention of actually being this man’s friend. Why would he ever like a royal? A member of the class that had oppressed Demacia for centuries? The reason that mages continued to suffer? Yet he’d swallowed some rather foul shit over the years, so for now, he’d just have to swallow his contempt and disgust as well. Sacrifices always had to be made to achieve the impossible…buddying up with a prince was such a small cost compared to what he planned to achieve. So here he was, feigning attachment, in the name of revolution. Feigning. Faking. Deceiving. No genuine reactions here.

“What is that _smell_?”

On his fifth visit, the prince sat once more in front of Sylas’ cell. With a small adjustment of straps, he unbuckled the belt-like construction that clamped together a series of blue metal tins. He pushed the small tower through the bars of Sylas’ cell and Sylas had to resist the urge to leap at them. He smelt food. Even over the stench of his cage, even through the sturdy metal containers, his senses went wild with the prospect of real actual _food._ Not moss. Not rats. Not that yellow-ish substance that grew on the far-left corner. Actual, hot, edible food, prepared by human hands somewhere that probably had an idea about cleanliness. The tins were still hot! He resisted the urge to press one to his face and just drinking in that blessed heat. That didn’t stop him putting the lid on his forearm after he opened the topmost container. The warmth on his exhausted muscles – forever strained from hefting around those blasted restraints, made him feel more relaxed than he’d done in years. And not only that…

“I believe the first container are thinly sliced and roasted potatoes with salt and herb butter,” The prince explained, “I should warn you; it is-“

Too late, it was in Sylas’ mouth. It was incredibly hot, but who gave a shit about that. It wasn’t like he had any utensils to hand, so he took no shame in shoving as much potato into his mouth as possible, as fast as he could humanly allow. He’d almost forgotten what potato tasted like! Let alone being able to taste multiple flavours, experience different textures, all in one mouthful… and having them all be pleasant? This was a miracle! A delicious otherworldly miracle!

“You’re going to choke!” exclaimed Prince Jarvan.

No he wasn’t. He downed the potatoes in a matter of minutes, licking the tin clean even as his throat screamed at him for consuming so much hot food in such a short space of time.

“There’s more!” Prince Jarvan exclaimed, “You don’t have eat the tin. Don’t go mad, it’s just street food…What do they feed you in here?”

“Bread, once in a blue moon,” Sylas replied, his voice echoing slightly in the tin, “Mostly eat rats and gunk off the walls.”

Prince Jarvan visibly recoiled.

“R-Rats?!”

Sylas lowered the tin, now free of any trace of salt or herb butter.

“Can tempt some out if you want. Trade you?” he offered with a smirk, “My food for yours? I can trap them in a tin for you take home, fresher that way”

“No thank you,” Prince Jarvan replied rather tersely, looking so sickened that eating would be a bad idea, “This isn’t my food. They’re tins from the barracks but…I grabbed some street food from every open vendor I passed on the way here. Except the sugar buns, they’re from the kitchens.”

Food from the Royal Kitchens? What an honour. Sylas had to locate these so-called buns and see if they actually resembled a real Demacian sugar bun. He wouldn’t put it past nobility to ruin such a time-honoured tradition. Whatever these were really, these buns weren’t going to taste anything like the ones his mother made, that was certain. Of course he’d still eat them, but it would be an enlightening experience into how the other side lived.

“Royalty eat sugar buns?” he asked, opening the next tin to reveal four meat skewers. He raised one and gave it a sniff. Jarvan gave him an odd look as he inspected the meat with the tip of his tongue, but didn’t comment on that.

“Of course we do,” the prince replied, “I mean, everyone eats sugar buns. Even the military.”

That didn’t seem practical.

“There are military-issue sugar buns?” Sylas replied, through a mouthful of skewer. He couldn’t really tell what meat it was. He didn’t particularly care. It wasn’t rat and that was all that mattered.

Jarvan grimaced, his distaste visible even in the torchlight.

“They’re not great. You get these squishy dough lumps in tins and you’re supposed to cook them in the tin over the campfire. Don’t taste anything like the ones at home, but…when you’re far away and need a bit of comfort, they’ll do.”

So, he’d actually done military service? Interesting. All that armour wasn’t just for show then.

“Do they taste anything like the real thing?” Sylas asked. The prince had yet to admonish from for speaking with his mouth-full, but he wouldn’t stop if he did.

“They’re sugar,” Prince Jarvan shrugged, “And they give you the energy to pack up and go. That’s all that they need to be. That’s all sugar buns are at their core, fuel to keep you going through the day.”

He was right of course. Despite his nostalgia, Sylas was no stranger to the true purpose behind the simple sugar bun. Was there truly a better metaphor for Demacia in general than its people’s favourite snack? The sugar bun was an icon of their nation – a staple recognised by peasant and noble alike that made them proud to be Demacian. It was lauded as a great culinary invention, a jewel in the throne of Demacia. Yet, when you really picked apart the decreasingly-fluffy interior of the bun, it was plain to see what it really was. Fuel. The sugary bread roll, so celebrated as a treat, was sold to aristocrats and factory workers alike, as being the fuel that got them through their working days. It had all the energy you needed for a long shift, masked in the sugariness associated with luxury. At national festivals, they’d stamp appropriate images into the dough, perhaps even throw a candied fruit or two into the mix. However, anyone with any common sense would realise that the beloved sugar bun was just sugary bread. Another tool used by the ruling classes to force their ailing subjects to work harder, to drive them past their limits with the promise of ‘treats’ that only really enabled their labour. Aristocrats could enjoy their version of the sugar bun and delude themselves that they were in touch with the common folk. It seemed even royalty did the same.

When he finally found the sugar buns – four perfectly identical rolls in the lowest tin – he plucked one out between thumb and forefinger and stared at it.

“It’s white?” Sylas commented.

Prince Jarvan stared at him, perplexed.

“Of course, it’s white,” he replied, “It’s a sugar bun.”

Sylas raised an eyebrow at him.

“You think all sugar buns are white?” he asked.

Now the prince looked even more confused.

“Of course, they are, they’re white Demacian sugar buns. White like the walls. It’s traditional.”

Sylas scoffed. What propaganda! And the prince had fallen for it so easily too. Had the prince ever eaten bread that wasn’t white?

“Do you think they can afford white flour out in the edges?” Sylas replied, “Do you think they waste white flour on something that’s intended to be fuel? The buns I grew up on were as brown as dirt. The only way we’d get them white is when the millers mixed ash into the flour to bulk it out.”

Visibly recoiling in disgust, Prince Jarvan demanded:

“They put what in your flour?!”

“Ash,” Sylas replied in a shrug, “Sometimes sand. Sometimes actual dirt. If you’re really unlucky you’ll end up in one of the districts where the millers add in a bit of Maidens’ Bane, you know, to keep customers coming back for more. Nothing like a bit of addictive hallucinogenic powder to get you through the day.”

The prince looked appalled.

“My mother used to make buns with what they called Baker’s Choice,” Sylas continued, “When bakers get through a sack of something, and there’s some left in there but not enough to finish a batch, they chuck the rest in a barrel. All types of flour, sugar, whatever, and they sell it at the end of the week, scoop it out in the jars and bags customers bring with. Produces a really speckled bun that’s for sure.”

Sylas took the stunned silence on the other side of the bars as an opportunity to stuff an entire bun into his mouth. It felt like the entire roll just melted away, leaving an overwhelming sweetness behind. The dough was so light and fluffy it barely felt like it was there at all. The crust cracked once and suddenly it was gone. This was a cake! Nothing like the hard crusts and thick bready texture he remembered chewing through with relish. Not that these didn’t taste good, but they weren’t sugar buns as he remembered them. His parents would’ve never recognised these as the very same substance they took to the factory each day. And to think there must be generations of royalty and aristocracy who thought this must be what their subjects were eating. How preposterous!

“Your mother baked?” asked Prince Jarvan, who still seemed to processing the idea of bulked flour. His voice wasn’t all there, trailing off as if deep in thought.

“Yeah, most factory wives did,” said Sylas, “Got to have something to keep you going throughout the day. Sugar buns are fuel after all.”

“So, your parents were factory workers,” Jarvan continued, “How did you end up-“

Sylas swallowed another bun before cutting him off.

“I don’t think so. I’m not giving you my life’s story that easily. You’re going to have to wine and dine me a few more times before you can get me to bare all like that.”

The prince blushed and Sylas couldn’t prevent his grin. So, if he was in a more pleasant mood, the prince was easily flustered with the right turn of phrase. Good to know.

To the man’s credit, he did continue to bring Sylas food on every one of his visits. The revelation that the guards weren’t feeding him must have turned on Prince Jarvan’s capacity to feel sympathy. Sylas couldn’t help but wonder if the prince had immediately gone home after that first meal and ordered a review into flour quality across Demacia. What a tragedy it would be for all those vile millers to suddenly have their products tested and found wanting! Whatever the case was throughout Demacia, without fail, the prince would bring him more of those royal sugar buns. He would alternate between picking him up hot street food and bringing meals from the Royal Kitchens – explaining that it depended on who was Head Chef that day. There had already been questions about where he’d been disappearing off to, and taking too much food with him would only raise further queries. Sylas didn’t care where the food came from. Each time the prince arrived; his mood immediately lightened. He would wander closer to the bars and sit at a non-threatening distance. He’d even control his hunger to eat at a more reasonable, and less disgusting, pace. For the sake of more food of course. Not for the prince. He didn’t care what the prince thought. However, the prince was the one who brought the food, so it simply appeared that Sylas was behaving better in his company. He wasn’t actually looking forward to, or pleased by the fact, that the prince had come to visit again. He was just hungry. This was just an unexpected bonus to his plan. Besides, he could plan all the better on a full stomach.

The conversation was just manipulation. Even when they discussed interesting or enjoyable subjects, like baked goods or yearly festivals. All nothing really. Having more fun than he’d had in years was just a happy coincidence. Being fed and kept company was a lovely side-effect. Once he was out of here, he’d be able to get his own food and would never need the prince for anything else but a very public execution. For now, forever, his life sentence had become a lot more bearable. Especially when the prince started adding other things to his donations, apart from his stack of tins.

“These are military issue,” Prince Jarvan told him as he helped push a trio of thick blankets through the bars, “They’re a thick enough weave that even the rats should have a hard-enough time chewing through them, and they should be fairly mould resistant.”

He could so easily have just taken some blankets from the castle and they’d probably have disintegrated in a matter of hours. Yet Prince Jarvan had actually taken the time and effort to think of what would work best for his cell. He’d considered the rats, he’d considered the mould, and therefore found the best blankets for the occasion. No doubt remembering his own time at war and how he’d had to make camp then. Sylas wasn’t stone-hearted enough to ignore this consideration – it was frankly touching to know he’d thought this through. He tried to convince himself he was enjoying the prince’s gifts and only the prince’s gifts. However, it had been so many years since anyone had done something so kind specifically for him… Yes, the prince wasn’t his only visitor, but this was different. Providing help for someone who didn’t even bring him sugar buns was entirely separate to having someone try and improve his living conditions. Could anyone blame him? Could anyone, deprived of kindness and human decency for so long, resist to the urge to like the person who was nice to them? The fact was, that…

Maybe…

Just maybe.

He might like him.

Especially after the prince started bringing two meals with him, so they could eat together. When he started remembering what food Sylas liked best and brought that more often. When he lowered his royal ass and actually tried the street food he bought – and liked it! That moment had been so hilarious! He’d watched Prince Jarvan raise the questionable meat skewer to his lips with an expression of the greatest reluctance Sylas had ever seen. Yet, when he took the daintiest of princely bites, his eyes widened. And then he ate three more skewers-worth.

Ok, maybe Sylas liked the prince a little bit. Just a little bit. It would be no skin off his back when he inevitably betrayed him for his glorious revolution. However, he wasn’t going anywhere right now. He could allow himself that luxury surely? Consider it a tool, he told himself. If he liked the prince a little bit, then it would seem more convincing to the prince as he pretended to like him a lot. Yes, this would only help endear Prince Jarvan to him. Another cog in the machine of his plan. He was allowed to like him, just a bit.

During his last visit, Prince Jarvan had said it had been three months since his first appearance in Sylas’ containment zone. Once again, Sylas wasn’t sure how long he spent between visits, but they seemed to be getting more frequent. The sound of the doors opening now incited an almost instinctive reaction in him. One to get closer to the bars as his stomach growled its excitement. So he didn’t look too eager, Sylas opted for sitting cross legged on the floor in his triple blanket cloak. Yet, it appeared the prince wasn’t done surprising him. He entered the room accompanied by two prison guards, who didn’t seem too impressed with their task of carrying a large metal tub into the room. Prince Jarvan said nothing to them, but they obediently walked over to the bars of Sylas’ cell.

“Get back,” one of them ordered Sylas, “Or we’ll make you.”

Sylas didn’t move, he was too busy looking at the large tin bath. That was for him? He looked at the prince, who was merely watching on with his best ‘stern royal’ face. Ok, he’d play along. He got to his feet, trailing chains and blankets, backing up towards the far wall. See princeling? A monster would’ve attacked the guards and then him in an attempt to get free. Yet here he was, letting them in with the tub, and then allowing them to exit unharmed, locking the door behind them. He then went back to sit in the exact spot he’d just vacated, eying the large metal bath. It was still faintly steaming.

No sooner were the guards gone, then Prince Jarvan stated:

“Catch.”

Sylas was about to give him a withering stare, and say something about trying to move fast in these manacles, however the bar of soap had already flown through the bars and landed with a splash in the bath.

“Good shot if you were aiming for the water,” he commented, “Otherwise, terrible.”

Prince Jarvan rolled his eyes.

“That doesn’t sound like ‘thank you for the bath’” he replied, “I thought you might like a wash, since its been months since your last one.”

“Am I getting too stinky to eat with?” Sylas asked, rolling up his blankets and putting them in the driest and least mouldy part of his cell, “Am I offending the royal nose?”

“And here I am, trying to be nice,” Prince Jarvan sighed, “So why not. You don’t get this until you use that.”

He held up the usual confection of tins before pointing at the bathtub. The slight smirk at his lips betrayed the insincerity of his scolding.

“Clearly, you’ve forced my hand,” Sylas replied with a false huff of defeat, “I’m just going to have to bathe, you dastard. Starving me in the name of cleanliness!”

He walked back to the bath and contemplated the water. It must have been scorching hot when poured to still be steaming by the time he got down here.

“The more time you spend mouthing off, the colder it’s going to get,” Prince Jarvan reminded him, “So unless you want to freeze your- ah!”

His voice rocketed up an octave as Sylas promptly dropped his trousers. Sylas got a glimpse of his shocked expression, before Prince Jarvan did a half turn so he was looking away from Sylas’ cell and at the door on the far wall.

“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before!” Sylas reminded him, stripping the best he could and standing there for a moment, in case the prince decided to peep round.

“Not-not willingly!” Prince Jarvan stated, sounding so flustered that Sylas couldn’t help but feel victorious. As it seemed the prince wasn’t turning back anytime soon, he brought his trousers into the bath with him for good measure – might as well wash those as well. The tin bath wasn’t quite big enough to fit all of him, but he was able to sit with his legs in the tub, the water halfway to his chest. After accidentally sitting on the soap, he retrieved it from beneath his ass and started to scrub himself down. Sarcasm aside, he had enjoyed his last bath, but this… this was so much better. Warm, slightly fragrant, with soap? This was practically luxurious! He felt himself shedding layers upon layers of filth, but the water was just about remaining clear for now. He shifted so he could dunk his head in the water and came back up dripping.

“Are you decent?” asked Prince Jarvan over the splashing noises and sighs of delight from within his cell.

“Morally? I think that’s for the powers that be to decide,” Sylas replied, “But I am covered up.”

Prince Jarvan turned around as Sylas continued to scrub himself clean. The closer he got to the cell; the more colour Sylas could see the prince’s face. He was wearing his ornamental garb again – the sort he wore for meeting potential brides. It was a very fine look on him. Though Sylas liked it much better with a matching blush.

“Just returned from an audience with a potential wife?” Sylas asked. He noticed at Prince Jarvan’s eyes were following the motions of the soap in his hand. He rubbed it in circles around his chest and watched him follow like a cat hypnotised by string. It took a moment for the prince to realise what he was doing. He shook himself out of it with a noticeable shiver.

“No,” Prince Jarvan muttered darkly, sitting on his usual spot on the floor, “No, we’re past the point of no return now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sylas asked. He made it sound like a death sentence.

Jarvan put one gloved hand on the floor beside him, leaning his weight on that arm as he sat in a slightly more comfortable position.

“It means they took the choice out of my hands,” he explained, “I took too long making my mind up and now… now my father and the Generals have chosen for me.”

Ah. No wonder he sounded so put out. He couldn’t blame him really. Having your future decided by people so powerful they were beyond your reach… yes, he understood that. His own situation was far more dire and not a matter of royal stupidity, but still, he could sympathise.

“So, who did they choose?” Sylas continued, “Is she at least tolerable?”

Prince Jarvan pulled a face – somewhere between reluctance and indecision. His eyes were back on Sylas now as he massaged warm water into the tired muscles of his arms.

“Luxanna Crownguard,” he sighed.

Sylas dropped his soap. It bounced off the side of the tub with a metallic ding before landing on the floor and skidding away. Prince Jarvan stopped for a moment to watch it slide away, looking up in time to see Sylas get up and lean over to try and reach the soap. Internally cursing himself for reacting to the familiar name, Sylas mumbled something about the soap being slippery. A quick grab proved it to be out of arm’s reach. So, Sylas was forced to get up out of the water, kneeling in the basin with his back to the prince as he bent over, stretched out and… got it!

When he turned and sat back down, the prince was red in the face. Sylas raised an eyebrow at him.

“I wasn’t looking at your ass,” Prince Jarvan told him.

He was definitely looking at his ass.

“Good to know,” Sylas told him with a smirk, before resuming his scrubbing, “So this Crownguard, someone you’ve met before?”

Seemingly glad to return to that line of conversation, the prince continued:

“Yes, she’s a childhood friend of mine. Well, her brother is my best friend, and she used to also come for play dates when we were all younger. As we grew into our respective duties, I only really saw Garen Crownguard after we came of age. She is the one I mentioned before though – the one I could tolerate but I wouldn’t wish to force the life of a princess on.”

Ah, so Sylas hadn’t been overthinking the mention of light.

“So now your father has forced this on both of you,” Sylas concluded, “I assume she has no choice in the matter either.”

Prince Jarvan nodded.

“I’m not sure how to deal with either of them after this,” he confessed, “Garen or Lux. How am I supposed to face either of them, knowing my family has condemned them to this? Garen would say something about doing your duty for Demacia, but he is fiercely protectively over his little sister. If I ended up making her unhappy, he too would hate me.”

“Also knocking her up would be a royal duty,” Sylas pointed out, “Not sure how big brother would feel about his sis having to lie back and think of Demacia.”

Prince Jarvan let out a hiss between his teeth as if horrified by the thought.

“Of course, heirs.” he cursed, “I can’t even think about doing that with his sister. Both siblings could talk and… I can’t have had dalliances with both of them!”

Wait, what? Sylas sat up a little straighter. Was he hearing this correctly? The prince refused to bed Lux because he’d already screwed around with her brother?

“You and Garen Crownguard?” he asked with a smile at this particularly juicy piece of royal gossip.

“It wasn’t anything,” Prince Jarvan insisted, “It was just… sometimes a spar becomes more than a spar. Summer calls for fewer layers of clothing during a training session, and once the blood starts pumping and spirits run high, friends assist each other sometimes. There is no attachment there. Simply two friends who can enjoy each other’s physique.”

“Oh of course,” Sylas chuckled, “Just Brothers in Arms assisting each other. Men being men. Physically appreciating the other’s body like all men do.”

“Yes!” the prince exclaimed, before realising he was being teased, “A man is well within his rights to appreciate the physicality of his fellows, especially when it’s mutual and consensual!”

“I never said it wasn’t,” Sylas taunted, “You’ve been quite clearly been appreciating my physicality since I got in this bath. Was this your plan your highness? Once last hurrah before your engagement? I’m flattered, but you’ll find a better stripper in the red glass district.”

If anything was red here, it was Prince Jarvan’s face.

“You’re not so innocent yourself!” he stated, getting to his feet, “Every time I turn up here wearing this outfit, you size me up like you’re working how to get it off!”

“So? What if I am?” Sylas replied coolly, “Can’t do anything from behind these bars. You’re the one who actually got me naked.”

“I gave you the means to bathe!” Prince Jarvan retorted, “I had no lecherous intentions!”

“And yet you watch me touch myself with soap, and check out my backside,” Sylas countered, “You _had_ no intentions, but what about now?”

Prince Jarvan made a noise like a rat being trodden on.

“Quiet!” he declared, so loud it echoed off the walls, “You dare speak to your prince like he’s-he’s some sort of pervert!”

Oh, so he was pulling rank after all this time? As soon as Sylas backed him into a corner he wasn’t prepared to deal with, he went back to being all high and mighty. Fine. If he wanted to flash his title, then Sylas would show him how he treated princes.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sylas snapped back, “Let me try again. You had me strip, watched me touch myself and checked out my naked ass… Clearly liking my commoner’s physique is humiliating whilst lusting after your fiancé’s brother is nothing to be embarrassed about. So, I’ll say it again. What do you want now, _your highness_?”

There was a clatter as Prince Jarvan threw the stack of tins at Sylas’ cell. He’d clearly already loosened their bindings for some managed to roll through the bars whilst others bounced off.

“I’m done with your prattling mage!” Prince Jarvan stated, “I treat you with more decency than you deserve and this is how you pay me back?”

“Oh great, I’m ‘mage’ again,” Sylas sighed, “Just because you can’t manage your own libido. You know, I really enjoyed the conversations where we didn’t throw our prejudices around. But hey, if you want to go again Princeling, I’ll happily strip you down until every single little belief of yours is tatters on the ground. Remember who’s forcing you to marry and torture your childhood friend? Well, they’re the same people who fed you all those lies about mages being monsters. But I guess they must be right about everything, huh?”

Prince Jarvan gritted his teeth, turning on his heels and striding towards the door without another word to him.

“Congratulations!” Sylas called after him, “Enjoy the rest of your life together!”

The door slammed behind the prince, leaving a definite note of finality to echo around his cell.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jarvan runs into a series of awkward encounters. Sylas tells his story.

The thick steam and intoxicating scent of fragranced oils only served to drive his thoughts further into a haze. He’d trod these tiles a thousand times, yet in this moment, they seemed like uncharted territory. Up to his waist in hot water, Jarvan watched as the occasional white petal drifted on past. Before he’d truly served in the military, he’d considered the Royal Baths to be nothing remarkable – as if everyone had their bathwater filled with perfume and fresh flowers. A stream of white blossoms swirled past him as he disturbed their ebb across the pool large enough to fit a dozen well-spaced people. The baths had been one of the most unsettling re-discoveries when he got back from Wrenwall, almost equal to the luxurious nature of the food he had eaten every day without thought. Yet, even more recently that that, he’d acknowledged that a bath could truly be anything – a bucket, a laundry basin, a confection of tin. Only the higher classes in society required their wash time to be filled with something other than soap and water. He cast an eye over the assortment of cloths and wooden tools that lay out on a small table by the water’s edge. If he so willed it, the place would be filled with attendants to scrape, massage or shave anything he so desired. Yet now, in this faintly-coloured mist, he was alone.

Or was he? He heard the sound of water sloshing over the outer tiles. The resulting ripples brought a fresh wave of flower petals to his side, sticking to his damp skin, for where the water didn’t touch, he glistened with sweat. He splashed a little water onto himself but only gained another few petals, stuck to his chest this time. However pretty they might look in the water, were they really worth the trouble of having to pick them off his….

“Need a hand?”

Jarvan looked up to find the other occupant of the bath had joined him. Sylas stood before him, fully naked, even without those oversized manacles he always bore. Without that ever-present layer of prison filth, he was even more of a sight to behold. He’d evidently gone for a dip for Jarvan could follow the cascade of water droplets from the taut pectorals of his chest right down to the trail of dark hair that led beneath the waters. Sylas stepped forward, plucking a single petal off Jarvan’s chest as he shortened the distance between them. The heat that rose to Jarvan’s face had nothing to do with the steam as he leaned into the touch upon his chest, closing the gap and moving past the pretence of removing flowers.

“That depends what you’re offering,” he replied, reaching up to cup the other man’s face, tilting his head and fixing Sylas’ gaze upon his own. He could easily shrug off the gesture, but it appeared Sylas didn’t want to. He smirked as he murmured:

“I can think of a few things no doubt.”

There was a slight splash of surprise as they simultaneously went for the kiss. Noses were momentarily squashed, but soon they found an angle than allowed them to clutch each other’s faces and press lips at the same time. Kissing Sylas was nothing like kissing anyone he’d dallied with before. Whilst even Garen was slightly nervous at first to be intimate with his prince, Sylas simply _took_. And took.

And took.

“What a delightful noise that is,” he commented as he took a fistful of Jarvan’s hair and began to kiss his way down his exposed throat. There was none of the gentleness, no holding back, no fear of Jarvan’s royal disapproval. And in all honesty? Jarvan preferred it that way. Their next kiss was as much a spar as the fight that usually preceded such encounters. Each man trying exert physical dominance over the other until-

_“Oh.”_

Ever breaking rules, Sylas changed their battle of lips and tongues into something far more intimate. He hadn’t even noticed one of Sylas’ hands dipping below the water. Yet the moan that burst forth from Jarvan’s chest was one of both surprise and pleasure as Sylas wrapped his hand around his swiftly hardening…

His hardening…

His…

“FUCK.”

Sitting up so fast his head swam, Jarvan clutched as his hair as he struggled to comprehend everything his brain had just showed him. He gasped for breath, ignoring the ache between his legs, as he tried to catch up on everything his mind had created. Or had it? His imagination couldn’t have done that! How could it?! It wasn’t as if that, as if any of that, was a dream his mind thought he wanted! How could he! How could he imagine that he wanted to… wanted to become intimate…to dally with… to…? No! This was nonsense! He didn’t want hot heavy aggressively-charged bath sex with that man, who was admittedly attractive, but most definitely a mage! It would never happen! Not in a million years! It was frankly ludicrous that he’d ever even be able to think about it. No! He did his best to ignore his erection as he thumped one of his pillows with a clenched fist. He couldn’t have imagined this. There was no way his mind would do this to him! He was the Crown Prince of Demacia! And a fully grown man! Not a lust-ridden adolescent who’d have dreams about forbidden handsome men, and their very strong and firm grip upon his…

“Fuck…”

No.

No, this couldn’t be his fault! There was no way he’d dream up such a thing! That mage must have done something to him when last they’d met! Of course! That was why he’d acted so out of sorts upon seeing Sylas nude in the bath. This was a trap! Sylas had placed some sort of horrible magical spell on him. No doubt trying to seduce him for more food or clothing, or perhaps a way out of his cell. Yes! That was it! Sylas was trying to seduce him to freedom and it… it had almost worked! Well, no more! Jarvan was onto his schtick now! He was defeated and Jarvan would him let him know that! He’d go to the prison right now and tell him to take off this ridiculous spell!

Jarvan threw back the covers, sent a contemptuous look at his own erection, before storming into his dressing room. Despite the lateness of the hour, he dressed to his grandest extent before striding over to the royal stables. By the time he was in the cool night air, he no longer had to pay any mind to his nether regions. This enabled him to ride towards the prison with his mind fully focused on the problem at hand – that contemptable mage and this damned enchantment! He couldn’t believe he’d not only let Sylas talk to him like that, but also infiltrate his head! He had clearly let his guard down and the mage had taken advantage. It the only logical explanation to what had just occurred and perhaps everything that happened so far concerning Sylas. What if the mage’s arguments had all been just that – magical trickery? Jarvan had slowly come to agree with parts of what he said. Especially after talking with Willows and learning what truly awful fates led those even suspected of magecraft. He’d believed everything Sylas had said about people being victims of their own birth – just look at his future marriage! But what if… What if everything that seemed to make sense about his arguments, were just part of the delusion? Whatever the case, he was getting answers, now.

The prison guards were startled to see him at this hour, but had the common sense to not to get in his way. Jarvan had told the prison that his repeated visits were concurrent with a historic investigation that he was leading on behalf of the crown. Possible new crimes that Sylas of Dregbourne may have been involved in. It was an easy enough excuse – the food and the bath were to get the prisoner talking. Jarvan strode the familiar route to the containment room, ignoring the greetings of the guards or the pleading of the prisoners in their cells. Past the need for pleasantries, he just wanted his head cleared and his mind sorted. Admittedly, he was still rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he stormed his way down the stairs, finally arriving at those enormous unguarded doors. The two prison guards who had just about kept up with him, helped him heft the thing open enough for him to pass through. Ordering them to stay outside and away from the door, Jarvan marched inside with a look of grim determination on his face.

Sylas was doing what he probably should be at this hour – sleeping. He startled awake at the sound of the door opening, sitting up and leaning against the wall as Jarvan closed the distance between them.

“Explain!” Jarvan demanded.

Sylas blinked blearily at him, clearly too half-asleep to come up with some sort of witty retort.

“What did you do?!” Jarvan declared, “Explain yourself.”

Sylas scrunched his nose as he frowned and tried to get his bearings.

“What…what are you talking about?” he mumbled, “What…is it this time?”

“About one in the morning,” Jarvan told him, before realising that wasn’t what he’d asked, “I mean,”

He took a deep breath.

“I mean, that I am here to hold you accountable for your actions over the past months. Remove the spell you have put on me this instant!”

Sylas stared at him as if he’d grown an extra head.

“What?”

“The spell!” Jarvan proclaimed, “You have cast on me. To endear yourself to me! The one that has been leading my thoughts in frankly inappropriate directions. The reason I had such a raunchy dream about the pair of us! Remove the-“

Realisation was slowly dawning in Sylas’ eyes. He opened his mouth as if to say something but simply stared.

“Remove the spell!” Jarvan insisted.

Slowly, ever slowly, Sylas smirked

“The spell,” he repeated.

Jarvan nodded, doing his best to look livid.

“That makes you have dreams about sex with me?” Sylas continued. He really didn’t have to put it like that, but…

“Yes,” Jarvan replied, “It is completely scandalous to even think of-“

Sylas interrupted him by raising one of his hands. There was the clink and clatter of heavy chains dragging against the stonework.

“Remember what these are made of?” he asked.

Jarvan stared at them. His brain had to take a moment.

“Petricite,” Jarvan retorted, “I don’t see how that’s going to get you-“

He was cut off again.

“And what are these made out of?” Sylas asked, knocking said manacles against the stone wall behind him. Jarvan squinted at the walls, they were a bit too covered in mould and damp to tell what sort of…

“Petricite,” Sylas answered for him, “And those doors over there? The ones you have to touch to get in? Also, petricite. They put me in here for a reason. Even the slightest bit of magic? Sucked into the stonework. Sucked into these chains. I can’t cast anything in here.”

Jarvan considered this for a moment. He was correct. The sheer amount of petricite in this place would make it impossible for Sylas to cast anything. And even if there was any magic on Jarvan, it would have been absorbed by the petricite doors every time he’d helped open or close them. Sylas had been living down here for years, and not once had he been reported as casting anything. (He’d seen his records.) So, it stood, that Sylas couldn’t cast a spell down here.

Which meant that dream. And all his thoughts in the mage’s favour – risqué or otherwise. All of that couldn’t be the result of any spell put upon him, which meant…

“ _Fuck.”_

Jarvan left.

So thoroughly did he leave, that he avoided the prison for a further two weeks. He attempted to distract himself with the banality of royal duties. He inspected troops, went to war meetings, visited aristocrats and smiled at citizens. He sat through every talk about his impending nuptials with a sickening feeling in his stomach, but it was at least a distraction from the turmoil now raging war between his princely beliefs and the cold hard truth. Or the warm hard truth. He had to accept that the dream, the physical attraction, the sight of Sylas bent over the edge of a tin bath, lifting his rather shapely backside out of the water… Those were all genuine reactions that came from his mind, his actual feelings. And with his marriage looming ever closer, those were extremely uncomfortable and otherwise distracting thoughts. He had met Garen once since the marriage announcement and neither of them had talked about it. They sparred, went to visit the palace guards for a bit, and then parted. Not one mention of Garen’s sister and how she was dealing with the news. Of course, it was one more thing for Jarvan to feel terrible about. He didn’t want to marry Luxanna, and he was certain that Luxanna didn’t want to marry him. She was a high-spirited young woman, who no doubt wanted to shape her own future. Yet, because she was born a Crownguard, and he was born a prince, such a choice had never truly existed. Because of where they were both born, society had doomed them to this fate. Just like it doomed so many others to so many things, due to circumstances they couldn’t control.

During those two Sylas-less weeks, Jarvan met with Cadet Willows on multiple occasions. He had asked the soldier to write, to the best of his ability, a report on everything he’d seen and experienced in the prison. He’d even given him the time off active duty until he completed it. Willows returned with an entire notebook’s worth of accounts, that only served to horrify and sicken Jarvan further with every page he read. Willows had spared no detail. Everything he remembered must have been poured onto these pages – from the guards’ horrific treatment of prisoners, to the mages and non-mages he’d seen die due to the inhumane conditions. Willows had included many stories – accounts of the lives of fellow prisoners he’d gotten to know whilst in there. There were tales of children, who’d had no concept of magic, until they’d accidentally used their unknown powers. One story detailed a young girl who’d accidentally teleported behind a wall to hide from schoolyard bullies. Her teachers had seen it happen and reported her to the Mageseekers. By the end of the day, the seven-year-old was in the same cell as Willows had been. A month later she had died of disease and starvation. Her parents being rich enough to send her to school had not saved her. It seemed, at least from what Jarvan could glean, that there were people from every walk of life crammed in those holding cells. Merchants and soldiers, housewives and healers. There were a remarkable number of medical professionals in Willow’s accounts. From Willow’s own midwife mother to elderly couples who treated nearby labourers for their work injuries. For a while, Jarvan couldn’t believe that the Mageseekers didn’t know the difference between medicine and magic. Yet he soon understood that those fields were not entirely separate. The swiftest, most effective, healing often came with a little magical assistance. And wasn’t it better that people recovered sooner? That they made better recoveries? That fewer women died in childbirth due to people like Willow’s mother? Who knows? If they had a magically trained midwife around, maybe his own mother would have…

Jarvan let out a heavy sigh as he closed the report for the umpteenth time. If he reported this to his father and the Generals, the report would be destroyed and Willows announced a heretic. He had to keep this safe until he was able to make changes. When society was ready for him to make changes. Yet, with the current beliefs ruling the throne and aristocracy… was there ever going to be a time? If he waited until the current ruling generation died off, until his turn at the throne…how many innocent people were going to die before then? Even so, nothing after that was going to steer society into one that allowed magic users to live ordinary lives. As it stood, with the ludicrously poor notes at the prison, there was no way of knowing what percentage of those in there had committed genuine crimes at all, magical or not. There was no way of telling what percentage even had magic. If an outstanding soldier like Willows could end up in there… hundreds must have died in there innocent but tortured. They would need to look up and investigate every single person in there to see if they deserved it… it would be a massive undertaking but the right thing to do.

It was getting harder and harder not to think about it. Almost impossible not to consider what needed to change. However, Jarvan couldn’t see a way to get through to the court that they needed to alter everything they believed in. He would be deemed mad, likely locked up, for voicing such un-Demacian opinions. And if letting people suffer was Demacian… oh he felt sick just thinking about it. It was the duty of royalty to protect its citizens after all. Yet they were letting so many suffer and die, because of how they were born. Because of matters out of their control. This wasn’t just a royal or aristocratic problem. This wasn’t limited to career choices or marriage. Demacia had set roles for its citizens with no mind for morality or even the progression of society, the well-being of its people. They’d all been sorted into labelled boxes and therefore treated accordingly, no matter their needs or potential. 

Jarvan could feel his world-view crumbling. The rose-tinted glasses of his upbringing had been shattered. His thoughts were descending into a mixture of emotions he simply wasn’t prepared to deal with. Helplessness, Fear, Disgust… his views were becoming frankly treasonous. But if hurting innocent people was treason, then maybe it was Demacia that was wrong. That thought scared him more than all the others. From his first lessons as a small child, he’d been made never to doubt the glory of Demacia. Yet now his every waking hour was spent dissecting the world around him, spotting every one of its flaws. He could see the shining path ahead, the one where his country could be better. Could be the shining beacon of excellence that he’d always believed. Yet it wasn’t the path they were currently on. And he couldn’t steer the ones driving them into that better direction. Even though he was a prince. Even though it was up to him to be Demacia’s future.

It was as he sat alone, taking his noon day meal in his study, that he remembered the other source of his tumultuous thoughts. Not just Willows, not just the poor man’s report, but the whole reason why he’d discovered Willows in the first place. He looked down at his meal and realised that, two weeks without visiting Sylas, was two weeks in which Sylas would not have got a proper meal. That was his fault. He’d neglected the man because he’d been so embarrassed by his base desires. So keen to avoid that confrontation, that he’d forgotten the man’s plight. He felt cruel, denying Sylas food because he’d humiliated himself. Jarvan got up, picking up the report off his desk and putting it back its drawer – making sure to lock it away from prying eyes. He did, however, retrieve a writing set – book, quill and ink, and put them in a leather satchel. He had doubted so much during the last few weeks. He’d tried to take apart everything, to learn from the stories in that report, going as far as requesting literature from the Mageseekers, accounts from local newspapers, histories from various academies and libraries, anything to see how much the threat of magecraft had affected Demacian society. Yet, there was one more story he hadn’t learned. One so-called truth that he’d yet to question – Sylas’ sentence. Sylas of Dregbourne was known as a mass-murderer, a fiend who had slain a whole mill’s worth of workers and the city guards who had come to investigate the premises. He was called a monster, the worst of his kind since the Rune Wars. Yet no record ever contained Sylas’ version of events. If Jarvan was willing to question everything, he had to be willing to listen to every side of the story. So, once he’d managed to make amends, he had to know. He had to hear the story from Sylas’ point of view.

He put his lunch to one side. Grabbing his cloak, he considered the tins sequestered beneath his desk. No, he’d need more than that. Remembering what Sylas had said about revealing personal secrets, Jarvan went to the cellars before the kitchens. He had the chefs fill a wicker-basket full of enough food for a royal picnic. One of the Head Chefs dared make a quip about him trying to woo his already-fiancé. Jarvan liked her enough to ignore that comment, before adding two bottles of wine to the hamper and departing. He threw a travelling cloak over the basket as he left, so not to raise too much suspicion with the fancy wickerwork. Careful not to jostle it too much, he strapped the basket in front of him on his horse before departing.

Traveling cloak still over the picnic hamper, he entered the prison without any questions from the guards. One of them wished him a good day and good luck with his investigations, however Jarvan merely nodded in reply. He marched down to Sylas’ cell – the route so familiar now he barely needed to watch his footfalls. Yet, as he descended that last set of stairs, taking that slow steady climb further beneath the ground, he saw something distinctly unfamiliar. The room below was usually lost to darkness – the only light source being his own freshly-lit torch. Not this time however, as he turned the final curve of the staircase, he saw a warm orange glow from the room ahead. Another torch. Yet no one visited Sylas apart from him? Both the guards and Sylas had made it very plain that most liked to avoid the containment area if needs be. All the petricite around meant they didn’t need to force feed him any elixir. The Warden herself, when Jarvan had arranged his initial meeting, admitted that most of the prison staff just hoped the ‘murderer’ would rot down there. Yet, there was someone else here today.

“Good afternoon?” Jarvan proclaimed, as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

There was an audible high-pitched squeak and the torchlight suddenly tumbled to the stone floor with a clatter. It didn’t go out, instead illuminating a circle of bare rock with a bright yellow-orange light. The doors at the far end of the antechamber were slightly ajar – the person had been into Sylas’ area, perhaps asking the guards to leave them be as he often did.

The torch span on the ground a few times until its wielder hastened to pick it back up. No sooner was the torch back at shoulder height, than Jarvan realised who exactly was in here with him.

“Lux- I mean Lady Luxanna,” he greeted, internally wishing it could have been anyone but her, “I didn’t expect to find you down here.”

Luxanna stared up at him with horror in her eyes. Jarvan couldn’t help but feel a little sad at the sheer terror in her reaction. They were friends for so many years and now…she was acting like he was the monster kept down here.

“P-Prince Jarvan!” she exclaimed, giving an awkward little curtsey. He couldn’t help but notice she had a book wedged under her arm. In the hopes that it would lessen the power difference between them, Jarvan gave her a bow suitable of her own rank. As he did so however, the loose cape slipped off his basket and onto the floor.

“Oh,” said Luxanna, looking at the picnic hamper and back at the prince, “I…err…what are you doing here your highness?”

“Visiting the prisoner,” Jarvan stated, “You know…for…investigation reasons.”

“With a picnic?” Luxanna asked, tilting her head to one side as if to get a better look at his increasingly-awkward expression.

“What…what are you doing down here?” Jarvan countered.

Luxanna looked a little taken-aback.

“I’m…erm…visiting the prisoner,” she tried, “You know for…learning cadet reasons.”

He believed that as much as she clearly believed him.

They stood there, staring at each other. Jarvan couldn’t help but feel like they were ascending rapidly through levels of awkwardness the longer they remained silent. Yet what he supposed to say? The elephant in the room remained – their impending marriage. This was the first time they’d met since that was announced and they were doing it outside of Sylas’ cell for some reason. She’d evidently gone to visit Sylas. He was about to visit Sylas. Did they owe each other an explanation? Should they pretend they’d never seen each other? Should they talk about the thing? For all his etiquette lessons, he didn’t have a good answer for a situation like this. Just nod and move on? No, that didn’t seem right. He should say something!

“I…” Jarvan managed, “I…”

Alright, good start. Just follow that up with something, anything.

“I don’t want to marry you.”

Not that!

Luxanna jumped again.

“Oh,” she said, “Well…I don’t want to marry you either.”

He’d predicted that much.

“I’m sorry,” Jarvan continued, “That my father, and your aunt, put you in such a position. If I could stop them, I would have already.”

Luxanna seemed to be in state of permanently startled, judging by her expression.

“Thank you?” she tried, “I guess… I’m sorry that you’re in this position too?”

“Thank you,” he replied, “I’m not going to stop until I find a way to give us both back our freedom. Though, at the moment, I don’t think it’s going to take anything less than societal reform to make anyone…”

“Societal reform?” she interrupted. She seemed to realise she’d just cut off her prince mid-sentence and instantly curtseyed again with a mumbled apology. Jarvan however was more interested in why that was what she’d latched onto. He knew a very specific mage who loved to talk your ears off about changing society

“No, no,” he assured her, “No need to be sorry. You’ve been talking with Sylas, haven’t you?”

He realised what an accusation those words might sound like, so amended:

“I’m not here to judge. Nothing we say will leave this room; I promise.”

Luxanna looked a little relieved at that, but she was certainly still on edge about something.

“Yes,” she confessed, “Yes I have. Just little conversations though. I haven’t done anything wrong or…said anything I shouldn’t.”

She looked at his picnic basket again, before her mouth suddenly opened in a shocked gasp.

“You’re the one who’s been giving him food and blankets! You’re his other visitor! But…you’re the prince!”

There was no point denying any of that, so Jarvan didn’t.

“Yes, we have also been having conversations.”

“About societal reform?” gasped Luxanna, raising one hand to her mouth as if she had just said a dirty word.

“Among…other things,” Jarvan replied, “You must swear not to report anything I say down here.”

“Of course!” she said brightly, “Cross my heart and hope to die!”

Right. He’d take that as a promise. She certainly seemed earnest and it wasn’t as if she could go accusing the prince of treason – people would think she was just trying to weasel her way out of marriage.

“I have been conversing with Sylas for several months now,” Jarvan told her, “And during that time, I’ve had many…many questions about how Demacia governs its people. I am currently running my own private investigations, collecting stories, evidence, the like and… Sylas may have prompted much of that. But something I am now certain of is that…that magecraft is not instinctively evil.”

She was gaping at him like a fish out of water, so he hastily elaborated:

“I know that sounds heretical, downright treasonous in fact, especially coming from a prince. However, you must have seen the conditions people are put in down here. And now I’ve taken the time to, stop, listen, investigate…Believe it or not, so many people down here are blameless innocents, imprisoned for powers beyond their control, for what they’ve had since birth. For too long, we have been punishing people for the circumstances of their birth.”

He took a deep breath, about to continue trying to persuade her, but she took the opportunity to say, quite simply:

“I know.”

Right. Well then. He could really do without another dose of awkwardness right now.

“If…” Luxanna said, slowly, as her tone filled with suggestion, “If you need any help, you know, with your investigations, gathering evidence and such. You know, I can get around whilst you’re doing all your meetings and army things.”

How it was his turn to look shocked.

“You would do that?” he asked.

She nodded, her expression brightening as she gave him a little salute.

“Yes! The Crownguards stand for a better Demacia, and having less people suffer would make for a much better Demacia!”

Her reasoning sounded like simple logic, despite the sheer weight of what she would be doing. Their investigation was literally treason right now. It wasn’t something to get into on a whim. However, he did appreciate the offer. Besides, why would anyone question if they started meeting more often? They were supposed to be getting married after all.

“Thank you, Luxanna,” he told her.

“Oh, you can call me Lux again,” she replied, “Now I know this marriage sucks for you as much as it does for me.”

“Thank you, Lux,” he amended, “I’ll send you a messenger bird once I come up with a way you can help.”

“Wonderful! Well…I should go! Good luck with your picnic with Sylas!”

He stepped aside so she could hurry her way back up the stairs. Jarvan couldn’t help but notice the sense of relief passing over her as she sprinted away. Her shoulders relaxed, her hands unclenched, and there was a greater spring in her step the further she got away from him and the door to the containment area. Perhaps she was relieved that he was as unwilling to marry as she was? Perhaps she was glad that he wasn’t angry with her heretical leanings? Whatever the case, she seemed to be happier the greater a distance she put between them. Maybe she was coming round to the idea of helping him change things? He couldn’t know right now, so he just had to save that question for another, less awkward, time.

On the subject of awkwardness however…

Taking a deep breath, Jarvan turned in the direction of the containment room. Yes, he was here for Sylas’ story at last. Yes, he also owed Sylas a very good meal. However, he felt like there was something he owed him first. Whilst he had come around on many of the ideas that Sylas had presented, there was no denying his initial reactions. There was no denying the yelling, the insults, the cursing, that made up their first three encounters. There was also no denying what had happened when he’d got Sylas a bath. His intentions had never been perverse, but the fact he’d denied his attraction so vehemently – resorting to insulting the man once more. That couldn’t be left unaddressed. And then what he’d done two weeks ago. That frankly humiliating visit two weeks ago…that was entirely his fault. So, he had some apologising to do. Personally, he wouldn’t open up to a man who’d shouted insults at him after so many seemingly-civil conversations. So maybe, just maybe, once he’d explained himself, Sylas might do the same.

This wasn’t about princely dignity or lowering himself to another’s level. This wasn’t trying to awkwardly patch things over. He was a fully grown man who should be able to make a sincere apology without embarrassing himself. It was the sign of a mature adult, and a worthy leader, to be able to admit when he was wrong and offer to make amends. So that was what he was going to do. He just had to walk into that room, and apologise, to Sylas. After all the mistakes he’d made and humiliation he’d put himself through.

Right…here he went.

“Oh, it _was_ you I heard.”

Sylas was already sitting at the front of his cell when Jarvan arrived. He must hold greater trust in Lux, because usually they both sat a foot away from the bars, out of each other’s reach. He didn’t shift however as Jarvan strode into the room to his usual distance, and then hesitated.

“I have something I need to say,” Jarvan announced, readying himself.

“Is it ‘I brought you food’?” Sylas asked, eying the basket.

“No,” Jarvan replied, sitting down so he wasn’t looming over the man in his cell, “Though I have brought you food. However, I don’t want you to think this is all about the food. This isn’t an apology meal. It’s an apology, and a meal.”

Sylas frowned slightly as he put the picnic basket down the ground next to the bars. Even if he couldn’t remove all the contents, Sylas could certainly reach out to flip it open and retrieve some of what was in there. Yet it appeared he was too intrigued by Jarvan’s last statement to immediately go for the meal. Taking another deep breath, Jarvan forced himself to choose where to start.

“I would like to apologise for coming in here and throwing around baseless accusations,” he began, “And also for…being in such firm denial, that I could like you, that I fell back on terrible old habits. If I had been in my right mind, I would have understood that I wasn’t under any sort of enchantment. That the changes in opinion I’ve had of late are the product of gaining a sense of empathy, and perhaps common sense, rather than any sort of trickery. I treated you unfairly. I fell back on discriminatory views rather come clean about my true opinions. And for that I apologise.”

“Are you sorry for being horny and in denial?” Sylas stated, eyebrow raised, amusement teasing at his lips, “Is that what that all that meant?”

That was certainly a very _succinct_ means of saying it.

“Yes,” Jarvan replied, “Yes…I apologise for being horny and in denial. And then insulting you and accusing you of manipulating me, when it was in fact, my own feelings running rampant.”

“Well, do you feel better for admitting it?” Sylas taunted. Jarvan frowned at him.

“Please don’t wind me up whilst I’m trying to be sincere,” he told him, “I’m not done apologising. But I will do my best to put them…simply. If my prior attempt was too wordy for you.”

Sylas reached forward and managed to flip up one side of the basket. He let out a little hiss between his teeth as he spotted a packet of smoked fish wrapped in brown paper. Jarvan shuffled closer, picking it up and handing it to him, before starting his attempt again. Simple words this time. He wasn’t at court, there was no need for this to be flowery. Be the military general, not the prince. Get straight to the point.

“You were right and I was wrong.”

Sylas spat brown paper at the ground. He spluttered for a moment, evidently having tried to undo the bundle of fish with his teeth.

“What?”

“You were right about the suffering of mages, and I was wrong,” Jarvan elaborated, “Over the last few weeks, I have been collecting…accounts, including those about mages trapped in this prison, and I have come to the conclusion that Demacia is fundamentally broken at its core. The current practices of our law, are wrong, and only causing further suffering to innocent people. For my denials of those facts in the past, I apologise.”

There were bits of brown paper stuck to Sylas’ chin. Jarvan wanted to pick the paper off him, but that would surely be an invasion of personal space. Instead he waited as Sylas stared at him, the half-smirk now frozen on his face.

“Say that again?” Sylas replied, slowly.

“You were right about the suffering of mages, and I was wrong,” Jarvan repeated, “I’ve been…”

“No, just that bit,” Sylas insisted, “Say that bit again.”

Jarvan wasn’t sure if he was being wound up again, but let him have this.

“You were right about the suffering of mages and I was wrong.”

“Alright, carry on,” Sylas said, now looking immensely pleased with himself.

“I have accepted that it is Demacian society as a whole that is the root of the problem,” Jarvan continued, “That the ruling classes will have to be changed to create a new, better, sense of order. Immediate action seems impossible, especially whilst my father rules. But I believe with my investigations, I should at least be able to turn the prison system on its head. Things will get better.”

“Ok, but can you say it again.” Sylas stated through another mouthful of paper. Was he eating it? He had proper food!

Jarvan sent him a dirty look as Sylas snickered at him.

“You were right about the suffering of mages and I was wrong,” Jarvan listed off, “Please do not mock me. I am trying my hardest to get my head around the enormous task ahead. Believe me, I want to make a difference and… stop laughing! I thought you’d appreciate knowing that...stop it!”

Sylas was laughing at him through his fish and paper meal. As he continued to laugh, Jarvan realised the look in his eye was not one of ridicule. No, it was joy, and perhaps slightly of disbelief. He wasn’t laughing at Jarvan’s apology attempts. He was laughing because he was happy.

“Part of this realisation,” Jarvan continued, “Came from reading accounts from mages who had been unfairly victimised by Demacia’s justice system. However, there’s one story I haven’t managed to find in any newspaper or report. One I would like to know the truth of. So please, now I can let go of my biases, now my mind is open to the truth… Please tell me about what happened to you.”

Sylas’ laughter died in his throat, though perhaps that was due to all the paper he’d just swallowed. He took a moment to get his throat in order, before replying:

“Didn’t I say you had to wine and dine me before-“

Jarvan reached into the hamper and pulled out a bottle of wine. He used a spike on his armour to uncork the bottle before passing it through the bars.

“Well,” said Sylas, looking a little surprised as he took the bottle, “If you insist... Unwrap some of these and you can count me wined and dined.”

Jarvan took a moment to lay out their picnic, moving closer so only the bars divided them now. He gave Sylas the striped blanket to sit on, giving him something clean to eat off rather than the filthy floor. He probably wasn’t getting the blanket back, but that hardly mattered. He unwrapped trays and opened jars, before depriving Sylas of any more brown paper to consume just yet. He could have it if he really wanted, but he had to eat the real food first. There was a lot of it. This picnic could probably serve three or four – though Sylas probably had the appetite of two men, it was an enormous amount of food. So much in fact, that Sylas didn’t appear to recognise all of it.

“What are these?” he asked, picking up a jar of fruit stored in juice. Before Jarvan could offer him a fork or spoon, he had stuck his finger in the jar to fish one out.

“Lychees, from Ionia,” Jarvan replied, “Preserved for the journey.”

“And what’s on these?” Sylas asked, holding up a tray of biscuits.

“Chocolate,” Jarvan replied, “Have you never seen chocolate before?”

“Does it cost a fortune?” asked Sylas, shoving a biscuit in his mouth, giving it a chew, then seemingly deciding it was acceptable and eating two more.

“It’s imported, so likely,” Jarvan admitted, taking a sip from his own bottle. He’d completely forgotten to bring any drinking vessels. He could use one of the trays, but the bottle was easier. Once Sylas deemed himself sufficiently full of chocolate biscuits and lychees, he started on more familiar home comforts – slices of pork and apple pie. Jarvan picked up his book and balanced it on one knee, uncorking his ink pot and readying his quill as he waited for Sylas to begin.

“What’s that for?” asked Sylas.

“For making notes,” Jarvan told him, “To better remember your story. I need to add it to my collection of accounts. They’re evidence against the current system.”

“Right,” Sylas said, licking pastry crumbs off his fingers. He picked up his bottle and attempted to chug a few mouthfuls. It clearly didn’t go well for him as he began to cough and splutter.

“Shit, that’s strong!”

“It’s not ale, it’s meant to be sipped,” Jarvan told him. Sylas pulled a face, sticking his tongue out as he tried to get over the shock of the wine.

“Doesn’t taste like any wine I’ve ever had…though they probably watered it down for a kid.”

Now the shock seemed to be over, he took a much smaller swig from the bottle.

“Not bad though.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Wondering if they were going to get to the story, Jarvan nevertheless let him take his time. He was asking for how Sylas had ended up in this prison after all. If he needed to prepare himself for the telling, then so be it. He picked at his food and waited for Sylas to be ready. Finally, after devouring their entire selection of pie, and half their grapes, Sylas looked like he was going to share.

“What did I say that brought this up?” he asked Jarvan.

“That your parents were factory workers,” Jarvan supplied.

Sylas nodded into his bottle.

“My parents were factory workers,” he confirmed, “Worked in a textile factory for a pittance. The thing about working for a factory is you don’t get to leave the factory. You eat, sleep, pray with your fellow workers in factory owned housing, in factory owned hours, and you earn coppers a week. If you want to work somewhere better? Tough. You go somewhere else you’ve lost your home, your friends, and if you’re really unlucky, thugs with clubs will come hunt you down for desertion. If all had gone straight forwardly, that’s likely where I’d be now – same factory, same everything. But life isn’t straight-forward… haven’t decided if that’s a mercy or not.”

Jarvan was making notes like he would do at a war meeting.

“For all its many faults, what Demacia does have is laws against employing small children,” Sylas continued, “So whilst my parents were working, all the factory kids got the choice of hanging out with surviving elderly, or wandering off and entertaining themselves. As soon as I was old enough, I decided on the latter. I wandered off to see all that there was to see in our part of the city. And, well, I had more to see than most.”

Wondering what he meant by that, Jarvan let him talk without interruption. If he had questions, he’d ask later.

“On my wanderings, I realised I was seeing things that no one else could see,” Sylas stated, ”Colours and lights that no one else noticed. I could see magic. Magic users, magic-imbued items, even the trail of spells in the air. That gift was, of course in itself, magic. At first it terrified me. I’d heard the tales, the warnings, the bed time stories about mages who burned naughty children to death. It horrified me that I was one of the villains of my own nightmares – that I, even as a child, was a monster. I spent long sleepless nights, seeing flashes of impossible colour pass by the window, knowing that I was considered a plague upon Demacia. I didn’t feel particularly monstrous. I bore no ill will to anyone. I couldn’t understand why this had even happened. How the horrible magic had found me when I’d been nothing but good. I spent most of those nights crying until I exhausted myself out. Of course, no matter how tired they were, my parents noticed eventually.”

This…this was so similar to many accounts in Willows’ journal. The child who didn’t understand why they were magical. The child who had used their powers on accident and been punished. Was Sylas even a murderer? Had his parents just doomed him like so many had?

“They saw this as a way out of their existence,” Sylas sighed, “A means out of poverty, away from the factory, you get it. I don’t blame them…the crushing sense of betrayal has long worn off. One night I gathered up the courage to tell them. I thought, in my childish naivety, that my parents would love me no matter what. That my Mama and Pa would look past the magic and still see their son. No. They alerted the Mageseekers, they ratted me out, in the hopes that the Mageseekers would pay them for their loyalty to Demacia. I doubt they got paid. I never checked. My only fortune in that instance is that they didn’t cart me off to prison immediately. No, once they learned what my magic did, they recruited me to the Home Guard.”

Sylas had served? The troops of the Home Guard were localised militias in different parts of city, under the jurisdiction of the City Guard as a whole. They were local authorities, usually tasked with the extermination of petty crimes like theft and vandalism. But, apparently the Home Guard of Sylas’ childhood, fancied themselves agents of the Mageseekers.

“It became my duty to locate the mages so they could be locked up,” Sylas stated, tone full of disgust, “At first I felt proud. Like I was truly doing my part for the glory of Demacia. Keeping the population safe from the nasty mages the stories told me of. Yet as I got out there, as I found the mages, as I saw their struggles, their innocence… of course I felt guilt. More with every passing day. It wasn’t too much of a leap to understand that, not only was I an innocent mage, but most out there were too. The ones that fought and killed were pushed into dire circumstances, often fighting for their lives. I wasn’t denying that mages are capable of evil, but most just are normal citizens trying to make ends meet like any other. I was sniffing them out and rounding them up like a trained militia hound…hating myself more every day because of it.”

Sylas let out a shaky sigh and gulped down more wine.

“My last mission for the Home Guard took me to an old mill where a young woman was hiding, evading capture. Just approaching the building told me there was more magical power here than I’d ever encountered before. Specifically, magical lightning. Upon finding her, my superiors ordered me to kill her. The entire building was surrounded, I was as much trapped as she was. But I still couldn’t do it. I had taken too many lives. Condemned too many innocent people. And yet, my superiors kept on shouting, threatening me with the violence I couldn’t enact upon the woman. The guilt was too much. One last shout and something inside me cracked. I used…something. A power I didn’t even know I had. Suddenly the whole building was consumed by lightning. Everyone, the woman, my superiors, the surrounding guards, were struck and killed instantly. Only I remained with lightning crackling in my wake as I ran. After running a while, I thought, perhaps… Perhaps the country I had served so faithfully, perhaps the guard that I had obeyed so loyally would understand if I just handed myself in and explained.”

He drank some more and let out a bark of a laugh.

“No. Demacia turned its back on me. By the time I was locked up in here, they were already publishing stories of Sylas of Dregbourne, the vicious mass-murderer. The higher ups made sure everyone knew my name as the greatest monster since the Rune Wars. Painted this terrified teenager as the worst Demacian society ever had to offer. I became the monster of children’s bedtime stories. I am the one who burns up naughty children. All because I gave my all to Demacia and _this_ is how it treats loyalty.”

He gestured at the bars before wrapping his hand around the thick metal surface. Jarvan couldn’t help but draw a little closer as his voice refused to come out in anything but a whisper.

“I’m…sorry.”

Sylas huffed, sitting up so he was kneeling on the picnic rug.

“Your apology feels good, not going to lie, but it’s a drop in the ocean after all these years,” he replied, “Didn’t really expect you to listen all the way through though.”

“Why not?” asked Jarvan, moving his book aside so the ink could dry. He mirrored Sylas’ stance for a better look at his expression. The torch in its holder upon the bars was sending odd shadows across his face, he had to get closer. Leaning on the bars, he felt like, if these somehow vanished, they’d topple onto each other.

“I’ve noticed that higher-ups like to jump to conclusions,” Sylas told him, “And you’re almost as high up as they go.”

“But I’m learning,” Jarvan insisted, “Or at least, I’m trying my best to. Things are going to change.”

“You really mean that?” Sylas quipped, “This isn’t just a matter of scolding a few bad guards. This is societal…”

“Reform,” Jarvan completed, with a slight smile, “It will take time, and a lot of persuading people who don’t want to be. But I will make change happened. It would be a crime to have the power and not use it. So I’ll do it. I’ll keep the people of Demacia safe from the real monsters in their society. I’ll reform the prisons, restructure the Guard. No more exploitation, no more punishing people for how they’re born.”

Sylas smiled – not grinned, not smirked, _smiled_. It looked good on him, especially this close up.

“I like it when you’re speaking my language,” he murmured, “It suits you, princeling.”

Why was he blushing at that? What the hell?

“It’s-It’s Jarvan,” he replied, “Just call me Jarvan.”

Sylas’ smile widened.

“Alright then, _Jarvan.”_

“Alright what?” he asked, wishing his name in that voice didn’t sound so good. Why had Sylas’ voice deepened like that? He sounded so pleased, like a cat who’d got the cream, yet… Jarvan couldn’t look away. Sylas’ gaze was trained on his, the flickering torchlight making the glint in his eyes almost mesmerising.

“It’s your turn,” Sylas stated, “For a reward. I’ve got all this lovely food, this blanket, the pleasure of your company. Yet you got off your high horse and learned to listen. So how about a reward?”

He really didn’t want a rat. No matter how many times Sylas offered. Not even a single rat needed to change hands here.

“There’s no need, I, what are…MH!”

Not a rat.

A kiss.

A single kiss that somehow stole his breath away. 

A single kiss that swiftly didn’t become enough.

Now Sylas was smirking at his stunned expression, using that shit-eating grin that was both handsome and infuriating in equal measure.

“You’re a fucking tease, you know that?” Jarvan exclaimed, when his wits returned, “Stop smirking you damned-“

His smirk only intensified. It was no use. If Sylas wasn’t going to stop smirking then Jarvan was going to have to wipe that smug expression off his face.

And he knew _exactly_ how he was going to do it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylas gets out.

Well, this was an unexpected turn of events. Not an unwelcome one, but overall, unexpected. He wasn’t sure what had surprised him most – Jarvan’s about turn on the rights of mages, or the fact that the prince was clearly hot under the collar for him. After that little incident with the tin bath, Sylas had considered using the prince’s attraction as a tool in his masterful plan for getting out of here. However, it soon became evident that he didn’t need to plant any raunchy ideas in the Prince’s head. No, Jarvan’s imagination did all the hard work for him. The poor man must be really restricted on sexual partners, if he was lusting after a prisoner. Evidently, he hadn’t been having enough hot and heavy sparring sessions with his friend lately. The whole ‘marrying my best friend’s sister’ had likely put a dampener on that. No doubt his engagement had added a fresh layer of confusion and anguish to the fact he wanted to sleep with people who weren’t his fiancé. Sylas would have imagined that he could do that anyway, as a prince, and get away with it. But apparently, Jarvan had a stricter sense of propriety than you’d expect from one with the power to do _almost_ anything he wanted.

It had taken him a while, but at least the man admitted to it. Not only that, he’d apologised for his behaviour in front of someone he didn’t really have to apologise to. What was Sylas going to do? Tell someone? Go around spreading rumours? Jarvan could’ve left him there forever and his secrets would have gone absolutely nowhere. Yet he’d apologised and that certainly meant something to Sylas. He shouldn’t be so weak to acts of simple human decency but, to see a prince get off his high horse and actually say sorry? To be treated as someone worth apologising to? Getting a prince to humble himself to his level? So extremely satisfying, it had taken a moment for Sylas to understand it was happening. 

So, what did this mean? Sylas started with the attraction part, just to get all his thoughts in order. It was clear he had cemented himself as ‘good’ person in the Prince’s head. Jarvan was attracted to him, cared enough about him to apologise, and respected him enough to take his opinion over written guard reports. He was no longer sitting a foot away from the bars as if he expected Sylas to reach out and strangle him. (Not that he could if wanted to.) Then there was the matter of their kissing… because yes, there had been more kissing. And Sylas had most definitely been the one to initiate it the first few times. Sylas wasn’t one to deny the obvious – especially when he’d already seen how that went. Early on in their meetings he had done his best to deny liking the prince, wanting to see him, or holding anything but contempt for his royal visitor. However, as soon as Jarvan started treating him like a person, with feelings and preferences, he was forced to admit he liked him. Just a little, he had told himself, but even that didn’t last. Denying it wasn’t going to serve any purpose now. Not after he’d kissed the man. His resolve hadn’t changed. Jarvan was his ticket out of prison. He was going to chase this relationship for as long as it took to see sunlight once more. But after that? After that he would face a dilemma. Sylas liked him. Sylas liked Prince Jarvan – despite his royal titles and upbringing and all that nonsense. When he wasn’t trying to resemble a gilded porcupine, he looked rather good. More importantly, he had proved himself an intelligent and empathetic man who possessed the unique and admirable quality of knowing when he was wrong. He was fun to talk to, even if it was such trivial matters as sweet buns and city markets. Sylas enjoyed opening his eyes to how the everyday citizen saw what a prince considered trivial. Jarvan was still a little naïve perhaps, but he was showing a willingness to learn and change that was immensely endearing. With a little more encouragement, and some real meaningful change to how ruling worked, Sylas believed that Jarvan could make a better leader. As long as he was willing to turn his back on everything his father and the generals had taught him.

That was where Jarvan fell short of Sylas’ expectations. He was trying. Sylas would give him that and he liked the fact Jarvan was trying. However, the prince was unable to think outside the box, beyond the parameters set by his predecessors. He was gathering evidence, reports as he liked to call them, to try and change the minds of people who were actively making decisions to murder magekind. Even if he managed to get them to listen, he would be preaching to a brick wall. By attempting to change society by using its own rules, rules already pit against his proposal, Jarvan wasn’t going to get anywhere. And if he did, it would take years upon years – time that hundreds of mages would not have. The only way they’d get change in their lifetime was to turn society on its head and overthrow those who would keep the inequality. You didn’t need to convince anyone if they were dead. Hard to oppose change when burned to ash. Revolution was the only sure-fire way to secure change. Perhaps if he swept out all the dissenting nobles from under him, then Jarvan would then get the chance to make that change. Of course, Sylas would rather they didn’t have Kings or all-powerful rulers, but Jarvan had proved himself willing to listen to other people’s views. If they could change what it meant to be Demacian, then perhaps they would rework what it meant to be a King as they did so. Whether or not Jarvan was involved in the reformation, revolution must happen for anything to get better. You didn’t overthrow oppressors by asking nicely. Fortunately, Jarvan was already on the right side of the conflict so Sylas didn’t have to consider whether he should spare his life or not.

Still, there would be no revolution until he was out of this damned cell. At this rate, he could plan everything down the slightest detail and still have no idea how to apply it to the outside world. Who knew how much had changed in his absence? Well, Jarvan did somewhat, but he’d have no idea where any mage networks ran, or even if they still existed. To put things plainly, Sylas needed out. He was tantalising close to doing something, now he had a powerful ally. He hadn’t mentioned this to Jarvan at all. Hoping the natural progression of his ability to empathise would lead to its logical conclusion, he expected Jarvan to release him eventually. However, he was now too impatient for ‘eventually’. He’d spent long enough down here. Now he sought some way, any way, to slip the idea into casual conversation.

The moment came in the most unexpected fashion – as things so often did with Jarvan. Another visit and another meal, who-knows how long after the last. These days they both sat up against the bars as they ate together. It made it easier to pass things back and forth – or at least that was Jarvan’s mumbled excuse for his behaviour. The true reason was that, without getting as close as the bars would allow, they wouldn’t be able to kiss each other. And they were doing a lot of kissing these days. Hellos and goodbyes, thank yous and your welcomes - sometimes a kiss said it better than in words. Sylas often felt greater meaning in a kiss, it was private, more personal, compared to an utterance that bounced and echoed off the walls. Sylas wondered if Jarvan had orchestrated it so his and Lux’s visits never coincided. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say if Lux walked in on them, gripping at the bars, as they tasted tea and sugar buns on each other’s lips. Sylas was glad she hadn’t. Never mind his fiancé - There was a certain thrill in knowing that he was the only one to see Jarvan in such a state. The flush on his face, the way he looked slightly stunned after even the slightest touch of the lips, the way his eyes darkened as he accepted his own desires… Confined to their little patch of torchlight, it was easy to forget for a moment that one of them was in a cell and the other was free to travel where he so wished. Yet that illusion was swiftly shattered when Jarvan attempted to touch him through the bars. It wasn’t the touch itself that bothered Sylas – Jarvan had placed his palm against Sylas’ bare chest where it was pressed up between the bars. The sensation of skin on skin was welcome. At first Sylas allowed him to get a good feel, however he swiftly realised the disparity in their situation. What had him pulling away was not the action itself, but the thought that there was no way for him to reciprocate. And that wouldn’t do. Perhaps he could make Jarvan see how _much_ it wouldn’t do going forth.

“What’s wrong?” asked Jarvan, looking faintly confused as he glanced at his own hand, still where Sylas’ chest had been.

“Getting a little handsy aren’t we?” Sylas replied, with a teasing smile, “I wouldn’t mind…if I wasn’t at your mercy here.”

Jarvan looked between them with a slight frown.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Sylas reached towards the bars as if he was trying to slot his hands through them. He managed to get his hands between the thick bars of his cell but there was a definite thunk and grind as his manacles collided against the metalwork. He could just about grip the circumference of a bar, but any further than that was inaccessible.

“As much as I would love to watch your expressions going forth,” Sylas explained, “This is where we stop. You may be the one in power here, but I’m not a toy for you to use to satisfy your desires.”

Jarvan recoiled at the very thought. He’d no doubt offended the prince’s honour in suggesting that Jarvan would ever take advantage of him. The concept clearly disgusted him. And Disgust was good. Not just good. Inspiring. In a moment of brilliance, Sylas had an idea which enabled them to continue this intimacy as they both clearly wanted, but in a fashion he would vastly prefer.

“I never said you were anything of the sort,” Jarvan replied, “That was not the impression I ever intended to make.”

“I know,” Sylas assured him, “But think it through. It’s hardly fair if you can put your hands wherever you want to and I, well, I just have to stand there and take it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m enjoying what we’ve started. But I’m not here to be played with whilst I don’t get any say in the matter. That is a step too far.”

Jarvan continued to frown as he considered the limited reach of Sylas’ hands, still holding onto the bars. It was clear from his expression that he’d not considered this prior to groping Sylas’ chest, and now he was struggling to come up with an adequate response. Sylas however, was ready to push the advantage. It was remarkable how much you could learn from kissing a man. It was clear from the first days of his crush that Jarvan was attracted to him. However, it took several sessions of rather hot and demanding kisses for Sylas to glean one key reason why. It was funny really – but Sylas would only send him running if he pointed it out. No. What got the prince so hot under the collar, was the fact that Sylas refused to show any sort of subservience to him. He wasn’t used to being bossed around, to either being treated as an equal or being put in his place. Combined with the fact that he liked how Sylas looked… The combination of attraction and having his authority challenged was proving ever so seductive. Something Sylas was keen to use to his fullest advantage.

“If these weren’t between us,” he said, rapping his knuckles against the bars, “Then I’d be happy to have your touch wherever it may wander. Thrilled to have it in fact. Why, I can think of many places I could be kissing right now. It’s almost torture, imagining the many wonderful expressions, the blushes…the noises I could wring from your lips. As it is, I can’t be the relief you want. Or the escape from reality you desire. Because no matter how much we care for each other, I am trapped in here and these are keeping us apart.”

Jarvan glanced at the bars and gave a small sigh. When next he met Sylas’ gaze, his eyes were full of determination.

“I’m not using you. The very idea is abhorrent,” he replied, “You’re not just a relief to me, or an escape. I do care for your well-being, for you. And I don’t think you deserve to be behind bars for any second longer.”

He deserved a kiss for that. Sylas wanted to kiss him, going as far as drawing closer to the bars once more before remembering he was supposed to be remaining aloof.

“It takes the King’s seal to release someone accused of treason,” Jarvan continued, lowering his voice a little as if in deep thought, “The problem is not even I can order you free.”

“Surely that isn’t too much of a problem for a mind like yours,” Sylas replied, “And think, how much having a free agent, a mage no less, will help you with your other little problems. Your reports…your evidence. Who do you think a mage is going to trust and talk to more? A guard or an equal? We can achieve so much more together…not just in our private lives, but for our country.”

Jarvan nodded.

“You’re right,” he said.

Oh how Sylas loved those two words.

“But it won’t be easy,” Jarvan concluded.

“Nothing ever is,” Sylas agreed with a smile. He gestured for Jarvan to come closer with the hand that wasn’t still wedged between the bars. When Jarvan cottoned on, he reached forward to press a kiss against the prince’s lips. Jarvan pursed his lips, clearly expecting it. It was therefore all the more amusing when Sylas changed tact and kissed him on the nose instead.

“What was that for?” Jarvan yelped in a mixture of shock and slight disappointment.

“Surprise looks good on you,” Sylas chuckled, before pressing their lips together once more, “Even if I’m stuck in here, I can at least keep my favourite prince on his toes.”

Jarvan gave a mock huff. Rolling his eyes, he never the less kissed him back.

“Do you know any other princes?” he asked, “Enough to even have a second favourite prince?”

“I’m working on it,” Sylas told him, able to feel his smile with every press of their lips, “Pretty sure you’ll still be number one though.”

“I better be,” Jarvan chuckled, “Or we’re going to have words with this other prince you’ve found.”

It was raining when the troop of guards came into his containment area. Sylas could tell because the ground water above had managed to find the small crack in his ceiling and it was now dripping onto the greenest patch of cell floor. He was catching raindrops on his fingers as the petricite doors opened. At first his heart leapt when he thought Jarvan might be visiting, but no, there were too many sets of footfalls. Far too much chinking and creaking of armour – Jarvan at the very least kept his shell well-oiled. Twelve guards entered the room, followed by a single Captain. Sylas recognised him as the man who’d escorted him from his previous cell down into this one. He’d been in charge of the high security holding pens back then. Always yelling until he lost his voice – then he got another captain to do the yelling for him whilst he went on sick leave. None of that explained why the guy was currently in his cell however. Neither did it tell him what occasion warranted so many guards.

“Sylas of Dregbourne,” announced the Captain in an unnecessarily loud voice that reverberated off the walls. Some of his men cringed at the echo.

“You have been summoned before the Prison Warden to hear of an amendment to your sentence. You will be escorted up to the Audience Room. Any attempts at escape will be met by lethal force. Understood?”

“Clear as daylight,” Sylas replied. He resisted the urge to ask why the Prison Warden couldn’t come down here herself. It looked like he was getting a trip out of his cell no matter what this amendment was. He wasn’t going to ruin this rare opportunity with snark. He therefore behaved himself as his cell was unlocked and a pair of guards joined him to escort him out into the room at large. No sooner had he set foot out of his cell; he was swarmed by all twelve of them. Barely able to see stone past the wall of steel around him, Sylas nevertheless followed his clanking escort out the room and up the stairs he’d been dragged down so many years prior. As before, his enormous chains dragged and clanked on every step, not a soul thinking that maybe they’d travel faster if someone helped carry them. As expected, nothing had changed. The guards’ walkways were still spotlessly clean. The holding cells were still cubes of abject torture. Sylas’ breath caught in his throat, his chest painful, as he heard the cries, the screams, the sobbing… Soon. If he could only tell his fellows that their salvation would come soon. That their suffering was nearing its end, that he would fight tirelessly for them to get the justice they deserved. His guards rushed him through the holding cells as if they were scared he would start something at any moment. Sylas went with a heavy heart and those wails ringing in his ears. One day he would reduce this prison to rubble, but not now, not today.

They evidently wanted him kept away from his fellow prisoners, for they took a long circuitous route up to the ‘respectable’ parts of the prison. The audience room turned out just to be the wide stone antechamber at the prison’s entrance. The front doors were closed and barred but Sylas had never been this close to sunlight in ever so long. A few more steps… He must have enough light magic stored to blast a hole in simple stone. Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option now his guard had doubled, tripled perhaps, as he was brought before the warden. She was looking far greyer than last he’d seen her. Hopefully something about ruling over an inhumane hellhole had given her plenty of sleepless nights. She was going to be the first to die when he tore this place down. For the present however, he was more interested in the small table she was standing next to. It looked rather plain next to her gleaming silver armour, yet the leather satchel and large grey travelling cloak didn’t look like typical guard attire.

“Sylas of Dregbourne,” she announced, pulling a large scroll from her belt and reading from it. Sylas noticed the enormous gold wax seal hanging from the ribbon that had once kept the scroll furled. Even an idiot could recognise the emblem of Demacia, but this was one was far too ornate, with far too unique an imprint, to be anything but regal.

“By order of King Jarvan the Third, Just and Righteous Sovereign of Demacia, Protector of the Realm and Lord Over All Fair Free Peoples. In Consideration of the Accused’s assistance in Matters of the Royal Order and in securing the Peace and Prosperity of Demacian Citizenry, in addition to Due Consideration of the Accused’s initial sentencing in light of new and irrefutable evidence placed Before the Crown. I, Warden Margaret Felicity Josephine Stoneguard, hereby announce that your Sentence for Traitorous and Vile Misdeeds Against the Kingdom of Demacia has been reduced by order of His Majesty, King Jarvan the Third and his Divine Jurisdiction. And thus, with this reduction, your time in Rightful Incarceration has met its conclusion. In Layman’s terms…”

She crumpled the scroll in clear barely-suppressed rage.

“You are free to go.”

Holy fucking hell.

Had he done it? Had Jarvan actually gone and done it?

He was out.

He was _getting out_.

Sylas could barely believe his ears, especially after that train of royal legalese garbage. He stared at her as the guards hastened away from his sides. The Warden gestured for the Captain to pick up the bag and cloak off the table beside her. He did so, striding across the room and shoving the items into Sylas’ arms.

“These were sent to prepare for your release,” the Warden stated, “When you are suitably attired, we will open the doors.”

Sylas looked at his new possessions, and then at the manacles still covering his arms.

“Aren’t you going to take these off?” he asked the Warden, shaking the enormous petricite shackles so the chains clattered on the stone floor.

“His Majesty specified no such thing in his instructions,” said the Warden, a little smugness evident in her tone, as if she’d at least won that over him. Her loss really. She had no idea how much magic he had stored in these rocks over the years. Magic that would return to blow her precious prison to bits. However, right now, Sylas was still trying to wrap his head around the situation at hand. He was getting out of here! He was being let go. He was free… Somehow, despite all his plans and schemes and thoughts of manipulation, nothing had prepared him for this moment. Marvelling at it all, he wrapped the chains about his arms before donning the cape and bag. The travelling cloak was indeed large enough to cover him in his entirety – shackles and all. As soon as he was done, he turned to face the Warden expectantly.

“All ready,” he declared, “Let me out. His Majesty demands it after all.”

The Warden gritted her teeth as she stepped aside, signalling for the bars on the door to be raised. Sylas watched the iron shift with a mounting anticipation, rising from his stomach until it gripped at his throat with a vice-like strength. Bars lifted, the doors were then pushed open by four guards, every second taking a lifetime as they heaved their weight against the stonework. And then, with a crunch of hinges, a squeal of metal, Sylas saw it…

The sky.

For the first time in years, decades, who knows how long…

Sylas could see the sky.

It was a torrential downpour out there but Sylas couldn’t care less. He took a tentative step forward, and when no one opposed him, he broke out into a sprint. He was out the doors in no time, down the stony path to the prison keep, and out into the parkland beyond. He stood, arms outstretched, face raised to the storm-ridden sky. He was assaulted by a barrage of raindrops, as thick and heavy as crossbow bolts against his skin but every second was ecstasy. The wind! Oh, he’d almost forgotten what wind felt like! He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding as he felt the cold night air buffet him in the face, making his cloak flap behind him like a pair of tattered grey wings. The air in motion! There was nothing like it after being sat in a stagnant cell for so very long. Occasionally the grey clouds would part to expose a sliver of shining moonlight, peeking out from the shadows, and every glimpse of it took his breath away. Light. Natural, not from a torch, not from a spell… just plain light. And grass! He was surrounded by grass, bushes and trees, the park around him empty due to the storm. So much life, buffeted about by the rain and wind, but life it was, all around him. He strode to the nearest hedge and ran a hand through the leafy branches, not caring how they snagged and rubbed against his skin. He touched the bark of the trees, the mud on the ground. Pulled up handfuls of gravel from the path and let the tiny stones fall to the ground as heavy as the raindrops. Oh, the great outdoors had never seemed greater! He strode across the park and found a pond, overflowing its banks with the immense rainfall. Light, shining through the shutters of nearby houses, told him he must be amidst a residential area. What a perfect place to build houses – around a top-security mage prison. Yet this was the perfect location to determine just how real this all was. If the weather didn’t bite so harshly against his body, he would have believed this all a dream. He’d wake up back in his mouldy cell hoping his prince in shining armour was trying to get him out. But no. He was out.

He was out!

Despite already being drenched, he took shelter in a small wooden structure that stood creaking in the middle of the park. The hexagonal structure consisted of a pointed wooden roof held up on sturdy wooden poles. Three of its sides were covered in plank walls, providing a barrier against the weather. Most importantly there was a bench inside, where Sylas could sit and take his bearings. He could spend all the time he wanted marvelling at the outside world, but that didn’t solve the issue of what to do next. His short-term goal would be to get out of this rain before he made himself ill, but after that… a whole city’s worth of options lay before him and they all pointed towards revolution.

As he sat, the satchel he wore nudged him in the leg, reminding him of its presence. He unbuckled the bag, glad that the leather kept it water-tight, and began to inspect the contents. Inside were three items – a coin purse, a thick parchment envelope, and a small leather pouch secured with a blue strap. Sylas checked out the purse first and found it filled with more gold than he’d ever held in his life. Probably more than his parents had ever earned in their lives either. Well, that would solve his food and shelter needs for a while, perhaps even fund some of his future plans. He could only assume this was a paltry sum to royalty, which is why Jarvan had handed it over in such a casual fashion. Sylas was fairly certain in his guess that this bag and its contents were from the prince. He doubted whether the King knew of his release at all. What motivation did he have to let Sylas go?

Confirming his thoughts almost immediately, the envelope contained a letter from Jarvan. It was short – a date, time, and a crudely drawn map to a building named The White Rooms. Yet he could tell it was from Jarvan from the annotations on the map. Alongside the arrows pointing towards their meeting point, Jarvan had marked several spots that he thought Sylas might want to know about. One addition said ‘meat skewers’, another said ‘sliced potatoes’. These were the street food carts that Jarvan had brought him food from before. Not only did this give Sylas some very clear destinations if he was hungry, but it also confirmed who this note was from without any need for a signature. It didn’t look like anyone at the prison had pried into the bag. Though if they had, they would wonder why he was being given a map labelled with food. A clear appointment wasn’t any less suspicious than a signature from someone other than their King.

Staring at the date and time of when Jarvan wanted to meet, Sylas was faced with a choice. He was out. His plan had worked. Endearing himself to the prince had gone so well he was now free with a purse full of coins and the world none the wiser to what he could do next. Technically, he never had to see Jarvan again. The prince had served his purpose and the next time they might meet would be in the battle to destroy the throne. Back when he’d first formulated this plan, Sylas had intended to ditch and run. To exploit the prince’s naivety to its fullest before taking down everything he believed in. Yet, as he turned the note over in his hands, he knew it had become more complicated than that. That initial plan never took into account that Jarvan might have a change of heart. That Jarvan might come to believe in the truth of what Sylas preached. It certainly didn’t take into account those close moments. The kisses under torchlight, the little gestures when Jarvan showed he actually cared what Sylas thought, for his well-being. Sighing, Sylas stared at the rainwater lapping at his feet. Nothing would come between him and revolution. Nothing could impede the path to mage equality. Of that he was certain. Yet part of him didn’t want to cut the prince out of his life. Hadn’t he already determined that Jarvan’s was one of two lives he was prepared to spare? Jarvan’s, Lux’s… oh, and maybe Lux’s brother’s so the other two didn’t turn on him. Alright, Jarvan’s was one of three lives that he was prepared to spare. Yet what did that mean for them? Was it too much to think of himself and the prince as a ‘them’?

Tearing down Demacian society, but also pursuing a relationship with its prince, seemed a little too much like having your sweet bun and eating it too. Was it even possible? Because if he had to choose, he would choose freedom. He would choose the thousands of lives he would be saving, freeing, bettering… But he wanted Jarvan in that reality too. And Jarvan was prepared to fight for mage equality, albeit in his slow bureaucratic way. Sylas was sure the prince would not approve of his methods when revolution came. Jarvan was trying to promote change through evidence and conversation. Sylas intended to roll heads. Perhaps that was an issue for another time. He could delay the inevitable by taking everything he wanted for now and facing the consequences later. The idea was certainly appealing. Whatever his future intentions, Sylas was a man of his word. He had made some rather seductive promises last time he and the prince had met and it would simply be ungrateful not to fulfil them. Surely, he could have Jarvan for now and take what chances of happiness he could get before everything came crashing down?

Yet what if his compatriots in the mage underground discovered what he was up to? Would it damage his cause, lessen his capacity to lead? Would hating the upper classes yet screwing the prince make him look like a hypocrite? Sylas sighed again as he gently folded the letter back into its envelope and slid it safely into the bag. He’d yet to open the pouch – a surprisingly tough construct of leather sewn together with yet more leather cut into shoelace like strips. He toyed with the fastening as he considered the ramifications of having both. Both sets of secrets – his scheming and his relationship. Of course, Jarvan might not consider it that. He might have just let Sylas out on the grounds of sympathy and an overwhelming sense of lust. But part of Sylas doubted that. He’d offered Jarvan what clearly no one else had – a sympathetic ear, a voice of reason and clear lack of tolerance for royal bullshit. Over the last half a year or more, he’d become the man’s confidant. An escape from the pressures of the prince’s everyday existence. Jarvan cared about him. Cared enough to listen to him, to believe his side of his own story, to note his food preferences, to provide him suitable bedding, to do something undoubtedly underhanded to get him released. Was Sylas prepared to give that up? To abandon some of the only kindness he’d received in years?

Sylas opened the pouch, knowing the answer to that already. Despite his hatred for the upper classes remaining unchanged, he felt like he’d found an exception. He thought he’d found a genuinely decent man, whose mind had been clouded and brainwashed by his royal upbringing. Jarvan had already made progress and Sylas was certain he could make more. All he needed to do was take the prince out to meet normal people, expose him to how the rest of the world lived. He had a sensible enough head on his shoulders to realise that his upbringing had steered him wrong. If the aristocracy was wrong about mage kind, of course they could be wrong about everything else. Learning about bulked flour had been an eye-opener for the prince. How would he react when he found about money-lending? Indentured labour? Guard bribery? They could change Demacia in so many ways. Every small injustice a citizen had to live with on a day to day basis could be changed by its prince. Jarvan just had to know they were there!

There was something solid and surprisingly heavy in the pouch. He extracted what felt like a solid lump of metal before turning it over in his palm. He frowned at it, momentarily confused by the circular confection of brass. It had a loop and chain like a pendant, but the chain was too thick and the item too heavy to be simple jewellery. He ran his thumb over the smooth unadorned surface. There was undoubtedly something inside this metal case. Focusing his magic at it, he was almost blinded by the bright blue glow issuing from the otherwise dull contraption. This thing was magical. Insanely magical. But why had Jarvan given it to him? He took a deep breath as he followed the magic to its source – a tiny solid mass within the heart of the thing. Raising the metal to eyelevel, he finally spotted a sliver of a gap in the metalwork. Wedging a nail in there, he traced the slit round until he felt a catch, concealed as part of the loop that kept the item strung. Pressing down upon the loop, the device immediately sprung open for him.

It was a clock.

He wasn’t wrong with his thought of jewellery though. It was as if someone had concealed an actual working clock in an oversized locket. The face was pearl-white with minute golden hands. The numbers had been painted on in blank ink, along with the words PILTOVER’S FINEST LTD around the point where the mechanism ticked. The power source was concealed behind the face, but even without his power, Sylas could detect a faint blue glow issuing through the thin faceplate. He had heard that mages of Piltover fuelled their creations through magical glowing crystals the likes of which had never been seen in Demacia. Or so he thought. There was so much power crammed in such a tiny device. Did Jarvan understand what he’d given him here? This was like throwing cooking oil on a fire. There was enough magic in this crystal to destroy a city. He’d been handed a bomb!

Or perhaps Sylas was getting ahead of himself. There was no way Jarvan could understand what this crystal could mean. No, the prince’s intentions were far simpler than that. Sylas gently closed the locket and flipped the mechanical marvel over. On the back had been engraved a simple statement, in a style completely unlike that painted within. No, as far Sylas could tell this message was new. This inscription had been left for him. Such a simple statement, but when the light caught it, it made his heart clench and his eyes sting with sudden emotion.

**_Now your time is your own._ **

Jarvan had given him a clock.

He had given him the gift of time.

Wasn’t that one of the things he had hated most? Hadn’t he so often cursed the fact that he’d had no way of knowing night from day, or understanding how much time had passed as he was kept deep underground? It could have been weeks between visits, between meals, or it could have been months. There was no way of telling. He must have complained about it to Jarvan at least a few times. To be so disconnected from time had only served to dehumanise him further. The rats had known when to rest and rise, the mould grew at a steady pace, but he… he had no way of knowing, no means to measure the extent of his decay. When he’d first been thrown down there, it had been torture– to feel so untethered and helpless. When he was younger, he’d taken having a daily routine for granted. Having a routine was like having control over his own life, even just a little bit. Yet in that cell, away from light and even the patrols of the guards, there was no routine, no schedule to keep his thoughts on track. Yet now…

Yet now he had a clock.

He could take control of his time, take control of how he lived his life! He could choose when he did things. He could plan ahead! Organise! The emptiness was over, the long hopeless wait was done. He could know where he was with the rest of the world. He could feel part of a structured whole. Follow the passing of hours with the rest of Demacia, wherever he went. Know when the night drew near and the sun would rise. His time was his own again and… and… he was free to do with it as he willed.

Scrubbing at his face, he felt stupid for getting this emotional. Who in their right mind would get so torn up over the concept of time? What sane soul would feel like breaking down because his world had suddenly got so much larger, so much brighter, so much…more hopeful? He was out. He was out and the sheer immensity of that fact was barrelling at him like an escaped bull.

He gripped the clock in one hand, gaze still fixed upon the inscription. Jarvan had known. Jarvan knew how he’d hated being so isolated, so separated even from the passage of time. He’d thought about that, thought about what Sylas might like the moment he was set free. And he’d chosen this. He’d given Sylas a means to track time. Once again, he’d shown a level of consideration that Sylas had never thought possible. Jarvan wasn’t just a decent person. He wasn’t just a useful tool for Sylas’ schemes. No, it was foolish to deny that he cared about this stupid prince no matter the sheer contrast of their lives. Jarvan was kind, caring, honourable, in a way that was so foreign to Sylas it was almost overwhelming. He wanted to return every kind gesture, every sympathetic word, that Jarvan had given to him. And now he was free he could. He would find some way to humble the man with kindness the way Jarvan had him. Sylas swore to that. He was not the sort of man who accepted charity, even with far lesser means than the prince had at his disposal. He would make Jarvan speechless with gratitude. He just had to work out how.

He wasn’t getting anywhere in this downpour though. He strung the clock around his neck, carefully tucking it beneath his metal collar so it wasn’t damaged by the rain. He was about to set off when he remembered the note. Checking the map, he found that Jarvan had marked a nearby inn as a landmark to navigate by. According to his new clock, night was drawing in and he certainly didn’t want to spend it out in this storm. He hastened in the direction of the inn, clutching his cloak about him so not to expose his chains to the passers-by that hurried down the road beside him.

The Quill and Candle was a homely looking establishment. Part tavern, part inn, it was clear the bad weather had driven off most of its regulars. When Sylas entered, sopping wet and dripping on its polished wooden floor, he spotted only one other customer. A small figure, similarly cloaked, sat in the corner with a plate of roast chicken and vegetables with a glass of what looked like milk. Sylas paid them no mind, drawing his cloak about him but lowering his hood to allow the fabric more movement. No one around here would know his face – especially not as drenched as it was. The shackles however were likely to cause suspicion so he opted to cover those instead

“Evenin’!” called the barwoman, “Come in, get yourself cosy! Still a fright out there I take it?”

“Absolutely bucketing,” Sylas agreed, walking over to meet her at the bar. Even halfway across the room, he could appreciate the fire crackling in the hearth.

“What can I get you?” she asked, pulling a tankard out from under the counter.

“A room, a drink and a hot meal, if you’ve got them,” Sylas replied, careful pulling out his new coin purse without exposing the manacles.

“That we do,” she said, “Not like we’ve got a full house in tonight. Here, try a house brew whilst I go get the boys to set you up a fresh set of sheets.”

After drawing him a frothing tankard of ale, she left him through a low back door and down a set of creaking wooden steps. Sylas took his tankard and an appreciative sip of the ale, glancing about the inn as he heard her clatter about downstairs. As he turned towards the fire, he got the distinct impression of being watched. He immediately turned to look at the cloaked figure in the corner – there no one else in here. They quickly turned away, almost dropping their milk.

Who drank milk in a tavern? Out of curiosity, Sylas focused his magic sense on the figure and his answer came in a glowing halo of golden light. No one else he’d encountered shone with such a distinctive radiance. As soon as the barwoman returned with his key, and he’d paid his bill, Sylas made a beeline for the only occupied table in the room. The cloaked figure jumped as he approached, looking a little taken-aback, but she made no attempts to deny her presence as Sylas sat down.

“He… _he_ said you’d probably head here first,” Lux murmured, pushing back her hood just enough for Sylas to glimpse her face in the firelight. There was no doubt between them who ‘he’ was.

“So, you came to see me as soon as I got out?” Sylas asked, keeping his voice as low as possible. It was a little hard to remain inconspicuous in such an empty tavern. The crackle of the nearby fire was proving some distraction. Fortunately, it seemed the barwoman was too preoccupied talking to her kitchen staff to eavesdrop on their conversation.

“Yes!” Lux replied brightly, “Well, I was kind of in the area anyway and…when I remembered it was today, I decided I should!”

She sat up a little straighter as Sylas realised that Lux would know when ‘today’ was.

“Do you have the date?” he asked, thinking of Jarvan’s note and their arrangement to meet. He may be able to tell the time now, but the date was still beyond his grasp.

“Oh, it’s the fifth,” Lux told him, “Sorry, should’ve probably started with that. Is there anything else you want to know about what’s been happening?”

So Jarvan wanted to meet him tomorrow afternoon. He hadn’t missed it, good.

“If I think of something, I’ll ask,” Sylas told her, “Why were you in the area anyway?”

Lux fidgeted a little as he considered her reluctance to answer immediately. They were a good long walk from the prison now. The Quill and Candle was tucked just off a main road towards the city centre, right in the middle of a quiet residential district. Unless she was visiting friends, or fancied a treat from a particular bakery, there was no reason for an aristocrat or a cadet to be visiting around here. As her squirming intensified, he looked her in the eyes and realised she wasn’t antsy with nerves. No, she was trying to contain her excitement.

“I found a thing!” she exclaimed in a stage whisper, leaning conspiratorially across the table, “And it’s so neat! Do you want to see?”

“Of course, I do,” Sylas told her, smiling at her sheer enthusiasm, “Please, tell me what you’ve discovered.”

From her bag, Lux pulled out a leather-bound scroll case, in which she was keeping a map. Sylas moved his ale and her milk so she could spread the parchment across the table. Fortunately, his shoulders were broad enough to block the view of their table off from the bar

Lux’s map had clearly been painted atop a pre-existing map of Demacia. Her lines and labels had been added in bold coloured ink, marking out a set of paths, or perhaps roadways, that didn’t exist in sprawling lines already present. She’d clearly colour-coded the routes, many lines running parallel as they reached the white walls. Yet, it was the starting points that intrigued Sylas more. He peered at her neatly written labels. The prison was definitely one. The Royal Palace another. There was one in the upper echelons of the city – perhaps to serve the residential areas reserved only for aristocracy. Number four was near the Main Barracks and the fifth… was that in the Silk District? The home of Demacia’s wealthiest artisans and their patrons.

“They’re secret tunnels!” Lux proclaimed behind one gloved hand, “Underground tunnels. For evacuation in time of siege! They all lead either out of the city walls, or to this area in the Factory District. No one has used them in years – I think everyone has forgotten they exist! They don’t say anything about them in our cadet training.”

She pointed to the district in question where three lines met up.

“I went and checked out the end,” she continued, “Turns out there’s three huge factories just standing there, empty, locked up, but they’re not even used for anything! It was really hard to get in from the outside, the walls are huge, but if you were in the tunnels you could get in and out whenever you wanted!”

“How extraordinary,” Sylas commented.

He shouldn’t let her know how much his mind was racing. A whole tunnel network lying unused under the city? A network that would lead him into the most affluent and aristocracy-packed areas of the city? And three entire factories… three factories where he could mobilise a force in secret. This almost seemed too good to be true!

“Have you managed to get in the tunnels?” he asked her.

Lux nodded enthusiastically.

“Yes! I can get in via the entrance near my house. It’s not guarded, you just need to know where to look. Oh, and there’s some more street-side ways in, those are the triangles.”

She pointed at the various triangles on the map.

“Just look for the Demacian crest carved into the stonework, put your hand on it, and press! Ta da!”

This had remained a secret for how long? He was going to need to investigate this immediately. The potential was boundless! 

“What a remarkable discovery, congratulations,” he told her, “I would love to see these amazing tunnels myself. Do you have a spare map?”

“Oh, thank you!” said Lux, looking delighted, “You can have this one if you want! I’ve got another one at home. This one is a copy!”

She offered him the scroll case which Sylas took with completely sincere thanks. If these tunnels were the secret routes she thought they were, then they had stumbled upon a goldmine. Just think of the possibilities! A route from the prison straight out the city? A space to mobilise with a direct route to the Royal Palace? This was exactly what he needed. A way to gather and move an army without raising any alarm! Even Lux didn’t seem to realise the potential of her discovery. She happily handed over her map without a single note of suspicion. Unwittingly passing the key to her home district’s destruction perhaps. She seemed too overjoyed at the thought of being helpful to realise what this information could be in the wrong hands. Not that Sylas was going to correct her.

“So,” Lux continued, lowering her voice further, “Now you’re out, are you going to see _him_ any time soon?”

“Soon,” Sylas replied, before recalling a question he could ask her, “Do you know anything about a place called ‘The White Rooms’?”

Lux had been just about to reach for her drink. Instead however, she made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a squeak, throwing one hand in front of her mouth as if Sylas had just said something lewd. Perhaps he had, for the colour rising to her cheeks was visible even beneath the shadows of her hood.

“Is-is that where… you’re meeting there?” she squeaked, her voice so quiet and high pitched it was almost difficult to hear.

Sylas nodded.

“Oh my stars,” Lux gasped, “I mean…no… that doesn’t necessary mean I what I think it means. Pull yourself together Luxanna. That’s just where people go to be secret, that doesn’t mean… but what if it does… oh gosh!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Sylas told her. Her blush intensified as she tried to wrangle her thoughts back together.

“The-The White Rooms,” she whispered, one hand still pressed to her lips as if she felt dirty even saying it, “Is-is a private place where… where nobles rent space to meet with their… you know. Mistresses. Or-or forbidden lovers! It-it’s not a house of ill-repute. It’s just… you never hear about anyone going to the White Rooms not to you know… _diddle_.”

Diddle.

Sylas inwardly groaned at nobles and their ridiculous euphemisms. Yet he appreciated the information regardless. So Jarvan had invited him to some sort of inn where the wealthy screwed around in secret. Well, at least he knew the prince’s intentions going in. Their last meeting really must have had an effect on him.

“He-he might have just booked a meeting room or something,” Lux tried, “You know, a nice comfy parlour. Usually the-the White Rooms are known for their baths but…”

“I’m sure he just wants to talk,” Sylas lied to her, now knowing exactly why Jarvan was inviting him there. A risqué meeting venue with baths? That was all he needed to know.

“Yeah,” said Lux, as if trying to persuade herself more than anyone else, “I’m-I’m sure that’s what he wants. Well… I hope you have fun meeting him. I mean…in a normal way not a…I’m going to go now.”

Clearly too flustered to maintain this line of conversation, she got to her feet, leaving most of her meal behind as she hurried towards the door. Sylas bid her farewell when she was already halfway to the door, quite happy to finish off the rest of her food as she went. 

He slept well that night, filled with a meal and a half, on the first mattress he’d known in years. By the time he woke up, it was almost noon, and certainly time to start looking for this infamous collection of White Rooms. The barwoman wished him well as he ventured back out into the rain. Though the storm had mostly subsided, the rain still lashed down heavy upon the battered streets. The deluge resulted in most of the food carts being either absent or heavily limited as their vendors struggled to keep their grills lit or hot stones sheltered. Sylas did manage to get a pair of fresh rolls from a nearby bakery, which was thankfully sheltered safely inside from the weather. He ate them the best he could as he attempted to follow the directions provided – unable to keep pulling out the note for fear of having it soaked through. He kept having to skulk in doorways, trying to protect the precious parchment as he sought which way to turn next. Eventually however, he managed to find his destination.

The White Rooms were, predictably, white. The front of the building consisted of white marble, studded with many bronze signs detailing rooms, rates and facilities offered. To the casual passer-by, it looked like the place was a private bathhouse mixed with a hotel. It offered everything from thirty-minute soaks to massage services, haircuts to “Pamper Weekends”. The amounts of gold each of these services cost were mind-boggling, but no doubt Jarvan had taken care of it. Sylas had approached the building around the side of some equally grandiose stables. He couldn’t help but notice some rather fancy looking horses sheltering from the rain. Some clearly had noble livery embroidered into their tack, the plainer saddles still given away by their gold threading and high-quality leather. Knowing he was going to look out of place as soon as he arrived, Sylas took the marble steps two at a time, entering the bathhouse a solid mass of soaked fabric.

“Welcome!” exclaimed the voice of a young man. Sylas looked up to see the entrance chamber consisted of yet more marble, mostly in the form of a circular reception desk where three white and gold uniformed figures stood. Two men and one woman now stared at him, they were all very young and very pretty, lit up by the arching displays of snow-white candles that were suspended on narrow shelves above their heads. The young man who addressed him, hurried out from behind the desk

“May I take your cloak?” he asked with a bow.

Sylas gave a small sigh. This was not a situation he was accustomed to dealing with. There undoubtedly was some sort of snobby etiquette he was supposed to use here. However, Jarvan hadn’t told him what that was, so hell if he was going to use it.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t,” he told the man, “I’m here to meet someone at two o clock.”

The young man’s painted lips turned into an ‘oh’ of surprise, before hastening back to his desk.

“Ah, yes!” he exclaimed, “You-you must be the company for our Diamond-Class Chamber… forgive me. I was expecting… well. Please, there is no need to undress until inside the rooms. Please follow me.”

Company? Undress? Did this man think he was for hire? Sylas followed him out into a much darker corridor, out of earshot of his colleagues, before trying to clear up any confusion.

“I’m not a whore,” he told the anxious receptionist, “I’m here to see the Pr-“

“I know!” the man squealed, clearly on the verge of panic, “I’m sorry sir… I mean, I know who you’re to see. His-His highness didn’t want any attention drawn to his booking so…so please just follow me. We’ve… it’s been so long since the White Rooms has hosted royalty. I really can’t mess this up. Please don’t tell the prince I…I don’t think you’re a whore I promise.”

“I’ll say nothing of the sort,” Sylas replied, “You’re doing a good job. I’m sure the Prince will think so too.”

The receptionist gave him a grateful bow before pointing him to a door labelled with a large ornate number one. He unlocked it before gesturing for Sylas to enter and closing the door behind him.

Sylas found himself in another dim hallway, lit only by a string of small coloured lanterns. He had to duck a little so not brush his head against them as he trod down the gold and orange dappled hallway. The closer he got to the far end, the louder the sound of running water became. So Jarvan had booked them a bath after all. He suspected as much. Yet that didn’t sound like a tap, or even a dozen taps. It was a churning splashing deluge to rival the rainfall outside. Was there an enormous fountain in there? Did nobility bathe in private fountains? Sylas pushed open the next door to reveal an enormous room – bigger even that his containment area had been. The floor was tiled in yet more marble, this time pink with veins of white and gold. The immense splashing noise was coming from an artificial waterfall, a slit in the far wall was issuing water at such a speed that it leapt over the tiles beneath and flowed straight into the enormous bath that took up most of the floor. The churn from the falls made the surface of the bath froth and bubble with a sparkling foam that smelled like salts and perfume. Flower petals, in pink and yellow hues to match the tiles, had been scattered across the surface, bobbing and swirling against the current, dipping in and out of sight between steam and spray. This was frankly excessive. But that didn’t mean he was going to refuse the opportunity.

“You took your time,” came a familiar voice from across the room.

Sylas looked up to see Jarvan sat cross-legged on the tiles, nude except for the small towel draped across his lap. Beside him was a long low table covered in all manner of tools and instruments – from simple washcloths to strange wooden rods with no discernible purpose. Sylas followed the edge of the pool round to join him, peeling off his cloak and leaving it on a hook embedded into one wall. Jarvan’s eyes widened as he took in the chains and manacles still adorning Sylas’ body.

“They didn’t take those off?!” he exclaimed as Sylas sat down next to him with a slight groan.

“Apparently your instructions weren’t clear enough,” Sylas replied, dipping his feet into the foam of the pool. He let out a long sigh as he felt the warmth soothe him up to the ankles. Jarvan watched as he stretched out before directing his gaze back to the prince.

“Turns out the King needs to be a bit more specific when he puts his seal on things.”

Jarvan rolled his eyes, picking up a cloth from the collection by his side and running it through his fingers. Sylas took his silence as an invitation to keep talking. He was rather enjoying his relative state of dress compared to Jarvan’s. Now he wasn’t hidden beyond yards of silk and brocade, the prince was definitely a sight worth savouring. The mist off the bath was condensing against the toned muscles of his chest, glistening in droplets on his chest hair before running down the defined lines of his stomach.

“So, did you manage to get the King’s seal back in his office without being caught?” Sylas asked.

Jarvan scowled and slapped him with the washcloth.

“Don’t make me feel any worse,” he chided, “I just committed treason for you. I stole from my own father and…”

“And I’m grateful for every second of it,” Sylas interrupted, pulling him into a kiss. He could feel how highly-strung Jarvan was feeling from the twitchiness of his movements. Further teasing would probably get him a much harder slap, or a punch to the gut, so he opted to cup the man’s face instead and draw him into a deeper kiss.

“Stop,” ordered Jarvan, pushing against Sylas’ shoulders as they parted for air. Sylas raised an amused eyebrow at his flustered expression and was promptly greeted by a washcloth to the face.

“If you’re getting out of here a free man,” Jarvan stated, “Then I’m going to insist you look like one.”

Oh, was that what all those weird tools were for?

“Am I not handsome enough to keep the prince company?” Sylas replied with a sly smile, “Am I not a pretty enough bedfellow for the White Rooms?”

Jarvan flushed but his gaze was still fiercely determined.

“Shut up and get groomed,” he stated, “You can start by stripping those rags off. I brought you a change of clothes.”

“And now he orders me to strip,” Sylas chuckled, “Are you sure I’m not-“

He was cut off as a very wet cloth pelted him in the face. It bounced off his cheek and landed with a plop in the water.

“No grooming means no fucking,” Jarvan told him, clearly scandalised at his own language but unrelenting in his insistence, “So get to it.”

With the fake groan of someone being asked to do an impossible task, Sylas removed what little clothing he had. His trousers were so threadbare it was remarkable they had lasted this long.

“Now get in the bath,” Jarvan ordered. It seemed the mounting embarrassment had reached its peak, only to travel back down the other side into the realm of not caring anymore. He was blatantly eying Sylas up, though less appreciatively than he might had preferred. More like a craftsman inspecting how much work needed to be done.

“Will you be joining me?” Sylas asked, as he slipped into the water. There was a series of steps just below the water that allowed him to slowly lower into the fragrant pool. He tried to ignore the trail of muck he left in his wake.

“Once I have what I need, yes,” Jarvan replied.

Sylas trod out to where the waters reached his chest and decided to bob about a bit as he watched Jarvan fiddle with bottles, brushes and combs.

“You know I like it when you take off your armour,” Sylas commented, “But I think I like all-off much better.”

Jarvan’s posture tensed but he didn’t deign to give a response to that. Sylas didn’t mind. As he bent over his collection of bathing instruments, Sylas was getting a fantastic view of the prince’s bare ass.

“Alright, come back here,” Jarvan commanded, gesturing him to return, “Sit on the lowest step.”

“Yes your highness,” Sylas replied, in a snarky sing-song tone. As soon as he was in range, Jarvan splashed him in the face.

“Bend over and dunk your head in the water,” he instructed, “And no comments about the bending over part.”

Sylas smirked but let him have his way. He soaked himself in water before sitting on the lowest step. Jarvan sat on the first step with one of many bottles in his hand.

“Stay still, because if this gets in your eyes it stings like hell.”

Sitting back and letting the prince shampoo his hair was an entirely bizarre, but overall rather pleasant, experience. Jarvan clearly knew what he was doing, his strong hands massaging the floral-scented goop into his scalp as Sylas did his best to sit still and not lean into the touch like a cat being pet. It was undeniable though, that firm pressure against his skin, the slight tug at his hair, perhaps just the feeling of having another man’s hands on him after so long… Damn it felt good. His eyes slid closed as Jarvan rubbed more shampoo into his temple. The prince could probably get this whenever wanted – lucky sod. Though if the prince wanted to boss him around a bit more, he’d certainly take this as-“

“Back into the water with you.”

Sylas was given a moment to yelp before Jarvan pushed his head into the bath. He emerged gasping and trying to rub water out of his eyes.

“What was that for?!” he cried.

“You were enjoying yourself far too much,” Jarvan smirked at him as he chose a wide-toothed comb from the selection laid out before him.

“Sit back up, we’re not done yet.”

“You better let me have a turn after this,” Sylas told him, folding his arms in a mock-sulk, “I’m not your doll you know.”

“You want to wash my hair?” Jarvan asked, getting to work with the next ointment, “Fine. Just don’t fuss to much as I try to tame…whatever this is.”

Sylas’ hair proved too much even for the widest of Jarvan’s combs. It got stuck in his hair multiple times to the point where Jarvan threatened him with scissors if he couldn’t pull it out himself. Sylas managed it, but they soon gave up on that particular aspect of the grooming routine. Instead Jarvan massaged in his next unction and Sylas dipped his head back below the water.

“Alright, my turn,” Sylas insisted, patting the step bside him with a splash. Jarvan placed the bottles on the side and joined him on the lowest step.

“Don’t you struggle to do anything with those enormous rocks strapped to your arms?” Jarvan commented as Sylas lotioned up his hands.

“I got used to them,” Sylas replied as Jarvan soaked his hair through, “You learn how to work round them, and around other people, whilst having them on.”

“When were you wearing them around other people?” Jarvan asked. Sylas wasn’t sure he was going to be as good as Jarvan was with him, but he certainly gave the massage thing a go. Jarvan didn’t seem to have any complaints for he leaned back into Sylas’ grip and let him rub goop into his scalp.

“You know, I wasn’t always trapped down there by myself,” Sylas told him, “I wasn’t always in solitary either.”

Jarvan washed the lotion out of his hair before continuing their conversation. 

“Then how did you end up in that hole?”

Nice wording princeling. He had intended to finish with Jarvan’s hair before he led the conversation in this direction, but the man had asked.

“Well, the problem was I was ending up in too many holes if you get my drift,” Sylas replied. Jarvan clearly did, as his cheeks flushed redder as Sylas uncorked the bottle labelled ‘conditioner’. Before Jarvan could try passing his blush off as a by-product of the heat, Sylas continued.

“There’s so much more you can get up to in a holding cell. Especially when there’s only you in there. Do you think I put on this muscle in the Home Guard? Those cells have bars on every surface. Perfect for press-ups, pull ups, lifting these manacles whilst hanging from the ceiling… got to pass the time somehow. I used to draw quite the crowd as I did my daily work out. Sometimes a guard would sneak back at night, hoping for a private showing. Well you don’t get something for nothing, especially in prison.”

“So they put you in that containment area,” Jarvan stated, “Because-“

“Because too many guards were affected by my raw sexual appeal, yes,” Sylas interrupted, “I know, we all have our-“

“I’m certain that wasn’t it,” Jarvan interrupted back, “But it doesn’t matter now. You’re free, and I’m sure we’ll find a blacksmith who can get those bonds off.”

Sylas had considered that last night, but asking someone to break through petricite bonds was more than a little suspicious. However, that was indeed a topic for another time. He was done with Jarvan’s hair and keen to pay attention to some far more _pleasurable_ regions.

Jarvan, however, had other ideas

“You know, in the army, they say the greatest act of trust is handing another man your straight razor.”

“More than that ridiculous falling over backwards exercise they do in the Home Guard?” Sylas commented, watching him as he retrieved said razor from his collection of tools.

“Much more,” Jarvan confirmed, “So, allow me?”

He might as well as have asked Sylas ‘do you trust me’? Considering the prince was a man with honour, it wasn’t exactly a difficult question. Sylas was more interested in how Jarvan would answer if he turned the tables. Not that he needed a shave, he seemed to have perfected exactly how much stubble he needed at any given time. He probably had someone to do that for him when he wasn’t away from home.

“Sure, but don’t make me look like one of your baby-faced recruits.” Sylas told him, “You’ve pulled out enough of my hair today.”

He was of course talking about that damned comb. Jarvan however merely rolled his eyes and reached for yet another bottle of scented fluid. They were going to smell like a florist by the time this was all done.

“You just need a tidy,” he replied, “So hold still.”

Finally, Jarvan had found a means to shut him up. It was very hard to quip at him whilst the man held a blade to his face and throat. One sudden movement and he could do himself a serious injury. Seemingly pleased with his silence, Jarvan hummed to himself as he made short work of what he deemed excess facial hair. The look of concentration and contentment on his face was pleasant to watch, but Sylas had to fight back the increasingly-desperate urge to disturb this moment of quiet serenity. Every idea his mind threw at him, from sarcastic comments to suddenly grabbing the man round the middle, would either result in a cut or at least a sudden dip for the straight razor. He wasn’t going to be the one to swimming to find out where that went. So, he had to content himself with watching Jarvan’s calm expression, the rivulets of water running down his chest and shoulders and the way his muscles tensed with every smooth stroke of blade over skin. It was a nice view. Shame about how high the water went, but he was sure he’d get a better look later.

Sylas’ face was certainly feeling lighter by the time Jarvan started patting him down with a towel. Now the blade was gone, Sylas felt no misgivings in pulling him close. Perhaps he was feeling his handiwork, but Jarvan seemed to relish the chance to finally put his hands on him. Cupping his face as they kissed, he tangled his other hand in Sylas’ hair, arm round his shoulders as finally they could get as close as physically possible – no bars impeding their way. Kneeling on the steps, they were in danger of slipping into the bath, but that did nothing to curb Sylas’ enthusiasm as he wrapped his arms around the prince’s waist and pulled him in tight.

“I haven’t finished with-” Jarvan managed breathlessly as Sylas nipped at his bottom lip, before pressing further kisses up the length of his jawline.

“Grooming’s done,” Sylas insisted, “Bath will take care of the rest.”

“That’s not-“ Jarvan’s words were entirely contradicted by the movements of his hands. The hand on Sylas’ face had lowered to grip at his chest, chancing a firm squeeze as Sylas silenced him with another kiss. He would be prepared to bet the prince’s money that he was nothing like anyone else Jarvan had bedded. Sylas had no need to soften his lust with airs and graces. He wasn’t going to hold back just because a title. What did a word mean compared to the sensation of tongue against tongue, hot breath on wet skin? He wasn’t here to “appreciate physicality”, this was no “dalliance” and he certainly wasn’t here to “diddle.” By the prince’s own admission, they were here to fuck. And Sylas fully intended to make every other attempt at intimacy in Jarvan’s life, pale in comparison to this one.

“My turn,” Sylas told him.

Before Jarvan could so much as yell or kick, he had hoisted the man up, arms round his waist, carrying him up three steps and depositing him onto the side of the bath. He wasn’t light but he wasn’t any trouble for someone who had to haul round rock and iron every hour of the day. Jarvan spluttered in shock as their exit from the water sent a cascade of foam over the tiles. Sylas merely grinned and he settled back on the second step down, perfectly in line for the next stage in his little plan.

“I’ve got another trust exercise for you,” Sylas told him as Jarvan scrabbled for purchase on the slippery tiles, “I’d say giving a man your razor is nothing compared to putting his cock in your mouth.”

Jarvan opened his mouth but no words came out. He seemed to have been shocked speechless, whether it was from the offer or Sylas’ crude language, Sylas couldn’t tell. However, their little kiss and a grope in the pool had certainly left him half hard. There was no way Jarvan could deny that.

“Allow me?” Sylas repeated with a smirk, “Or am I too much for the royal sensibilities?”

Jarvan kicked at the water, splashing Sylas as he attempted to scowl and ignore how his cock twitched under Sylas’ focused gaze.

“Fine! …If it’ll shut you up.”

“We’ll see about that.”

The noise Jarvan made when Sylas took him in hand would forever be sealed into his memory. That little grunt-yelp was the least dignified sound the prince had ever made. He seemed to understand this for he hung his head as if trying to obscure the redness of his cheeks and the laboured nature of his breath. What other noises could Sylas get him to make? Sylas grinned as he began to gently stroke him to full hardness, enjoying every muffled groan and barely-restrained thrust into his touch. Occasionally, Sylas would dip a hand back into the water, to return it slippery and wet. All the better to glide his grip up and down the prince’s shaft. He chuckled as Jarvan let out another one of those strangled noises, the grunt-yelp that told Sylas he hadn’t be prepared for how good this felt. Why, he didn’t even have his mouth on him yet…

“Ple…no, I won’t…” Jarvan cursed under his breath, his eyes screwed shut as he clearly fought back the urge to beg. Not one to back down from a challenge, Sylas intensified his grip, pressing his thumb into the head and-

“Sylas! Just- _fuck…”_

“Patience,” Sylas told him.

Jarvan tried to kick him but missed completely. Sylas got the message though. He let go just long enough for Jarvan to open his eyes and wonder what had changed. Only to see Sylas press his lips to the tip of his cock. Jarvan’s eyes widened, one hand clamped over his own mouth as he watched Sylas size up the length in front of him.

“You can’t, seriously, be…”

Too late, it was in Sylas’ mouth.

“You’re going to choke!” exclaimed Jarvan, biting back a moan as Sylas smirked around a mouthful of cock.

No he wasn’t. Keeping one hand on what wasn’t in his mouth, Sylas sucked hard, making Jarvan groan loudly as he struggled to keep his voice in check. Determined to break his resolve entirely, Sylas began to lick hot strips of saliva up the length of his cock, stopping only to suck on the head, to toy with the skin there as his free hand played with the prince’s balls. 

It wasn’t long until Jarvan was thrusting himself down his throat. Sylas let him have his fun, revelling in the brazen noise the prince was making now his inhibitions had been thoroughly washed down the drain. Jarvan was moaning in earnest, fingers tangled in Sylas’ hair as he thrust between his spit-swollen lips. The slight pain of having his scalp tugged at was only adding to the sensation of having his throat so earnestly abused. Sylas took himself in hand, gaze fixed on Jarvan’s expression of ecstasy as he struggled to keep his eyes open. As Jarvan’s hips faltered in their rhythm, Sylas could tell the man was close. Much to Jarvan’s evident displeasure, he drew his head back, releasing the man’s cock with a slight ‘pop’ between his lips.

“Sylas, don’t you dare…”

Chuckling was hard when your throat felt so raw. The resulting sound was a scratchy husky mess of mirth and arousal.

“You were enjoying yourself too much,” Sylas taunted him, “I think I deserve a little something, don’t you?”

Jarvan groaned, clearly struggling to wrestle his thoughts back from the ache in his cock. Without another word to him, the prince gingerly slid back into the bath, down a few steps, until he was up to his hips in hot water. He hesitated for a moment before turning around where he knelt, presenting his back to Sylas, placing his hands on the steps above and bending over…

Oh.

Well then.

Sylas’ eyes widened at the clear invitation. He hastened to over the collection of weird tools and vials. One of them had to be oil. Jarvan had invited him here for a very specific purpose to this very specific venue. Yet as Sylas stared at the rainbow of tiny bottles and vials, half of which weren’t even labelled, he was none the wiser. Oh, for fuck’s sake! Nobles and their damned…

“Which of these is oil?” he asked, his scratchy voice cracking in his haste.

“Blue…at the end,” Jarvan panted, “Hurry up or I’ll just-“

Sylas didn’t let him finish his threat. He grabbed the furthest blue bottle, uncorking the stopper before pouring the thankfully non-floral liquid all over his hands. A few swift strokes to his own erection left it glistening with whatever oil a royal deemed suitable to be fucked with. There were no illusions left behind by this bottle. Twice the size of any of the others, Jarvan had come here wanting and expecting to need it. Sylas guessed that was how he preferred it. Did Jarvan let his best friend fuck him up the ass too? Probably not the best time to ask. He brought the bottle back with him, taking a moment to appreciate the sight of a very attractive man bent over for him amidst the foam and flower petals of the bath. Under any other circumstances, he would’ve called this a dream, and a very fantastical one at that. But no, that was the Prince of Demacia, impatiently waiting for him to make a mess of his very wet and naked ass.

“Stop gawking and do something,” Jarvan ordered, clearly growing more impatient by the moment, “Do you want to fuck me or not?”

“Bossy,” Sylas commented as he slipped through the water to kneel behind the fidgeting prince. He poured out a little more oil from the bottle, dripping it over Jarvan’s cheeks and letting it dribble into the crack. Jarvan squirmed a little as Sylas gathered up the fluid with his fingers pressing against his hole as he thoroughly coated the twitching rim with oil.

“I’m not some…some blushing maiden,” Jarvan insisted, panting out his words as Sylas pressed the tip of one finger slowly inside, “Just get on with it. Don’t need fingers just...”

“And here I was, trying to be romantic,” Sylas replied, withdrawing the one finger he’d eased inside. His cock throbbed at the thought of just entering him here and now. No slow descent, just thrusting inside with no care for the other’s discomfort in pursuit of his own pleasure. 

“No, you weren’t,” Jarvan retorted, canting his hips a little, “You were trying to be a bloody tease.”

Luckily for Sylas, that seemed to be exactly what Jarvan wanted. The prince finally stopped fidgeting when he felt the head of Sylas’ cock press against his slick entrance.

“Alright, you caught me.”

He couldn’t quite give the punishing pace Jarvan so clearly desired. Mainly because the man was too damn tight to give him anything but a long slow push inside. More oil eased the way, allowing Sylas a few short thrusts as he sank into that unbelievable heat. Sylas didn’t, couldn’t, stop until his hips were pressed flush against the prince’s ass. It appeared Jarvan was out of orders or bossy remarks. He hung his head over the water’s edge, hot breath panting against the tiles as he attempted to grip at the smooth ledge. Finally feeling like he could move, Sylas took a tight grip on Jarvan’s hips and slowly pulled back. He withdrew until only the head of his cock remained in that gloriously tight grip, before slamming straight back in.

“Sylas! _Fuck_ …”

Sylas didn’t think he could form words if he tried. Jarvan was beyond anything but cries of his name and curses as he rolled his hips back to meet Sylas’ quickening pace. What was speech when his every nerve seemed to focus on that amazing pressure, that tightness, that heat… Sylas clutched at Jarvan’s hips harder as their skin slapped together, knowing his nails would leave bruises later, but too wrapped in his own desire to care. Their speed was hard, fast, near-brutal as Jarvan dragged his hands across the tilework, trying to ground himself, unable to escape the pleasure assaulting his insides. He was babbling curses like there was no end to his profanity. Each ‘fuck me’ met with a particularly hard thrust, a savage slap against the roll of his hips.

The tight heat around his cock was almost enough to drive Sylas mindless. For a moment he considered reaching around to grab Jarvan’s length. To jerk him off in time to the rapid pace of his thrusts. Yet as Jarvan let out a cry of his name louder than any other, and as Sylas angled his next thrust to hit that same spot, making the prince howl once more… No, he had a much better idea. There would be no fondling, no relief, nothing to drive Jarvan to that sweet release except Sylas’ cock inside of him. He opted to wrap his arms around Jarvan once more, taking hold of his chest and waist and lifting him upright, off the tiles, and pulling him back to lean flush against Sylas’ chest. Now he was supporting most of Jarvan’s weight, their pace slowed. But the new angle had Jarvan bucking against him, the change in angle only seeming to heighten his pleasure.

“You can do it,” Sylas growled, finally getting the words out, though his breathing was laboured with the need to keep thrusting, “Come on princeling, let’s see you come on my cock.”

“Sylas you fu-“

Sylas felt his orgasm the moment before it drove Jarvan to silent ecstasy. The grip on Sylas’ cock became so tight it was almost painful. Then, with one last jerk of his hips, Jarvan was coming, spurting white ribbons of cum into the cloudy bathwater. Sylas held him close as he shook from head to toe with the intensity of his release. Only letting him go when the Jarvan began to grumble at him, batting him on the shoulder to demand his freedom. Sylas let him go, gaze on the prince’s backside as he rolled onto the step beside him, trailing oil and precum until he sank into the warm water. Sylas sat back, breathing hard as he bemoaned the loss of that hot friction, forced to thrust into his own hand as he chased the high of their fucking. As he felt the tension mount in his gut, he was suddenly interrupted by a pair of lips on his cheek and a whisper of

“Having trouble?”

A vice like grip suddenly took his cock as if Jarvan was trying to crush the life out of him. One pump, two pumps and it was all too much. Sylas let out a strangled yell, hips jerking as he came all over the smirking prince’s hand. Jarvan refused to let go, making him ride his orgasm out until he felt limp and boneless under such cruel ministrations. All Sylas could manage was a feeble ‘fuck you’, before being pulled into a sloppy kiss, containing far greater tenderness than anything that had just happened between them.

The next few minutes were filled with panting breaths and the occasional groan. Both of them opted to sink slowly into the perfumed depths, soothing tired muscles and bruised flesh. There was no need for ointments and combs, no need for taunts or quips as they simply spread out, relaxed, and let the warm water do its magic.

“We’re doing this again,” Jarvan stated, leaning back into the foam with a weary sigh, just about managing to float amidst the bubbles and flower petals

Yes, thought Sylas, casting an appreciative eye over the red half-moon shaped cuts in the prince’s hips, the bruises that were already starting to blossom there.

Yes, if all went according to plan, if he could have his sweet bun and eat it too…. They most certainly would do this again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been three months since Sylas' release and chaos is steadily spreading throughout the Capital. Jarvan doesn't want to believe his friend has anything to do with this unknown threat, but he's going to have to ask.

“We need to talk.”

It was an ominous way to start a conversation, Jarvan understood that. However trying to mince his words around Sylas had never accomplished much of anything. More often than not, Sylas would find some way to mock his proper etiquette and the conversation would be hopelessly derailed. This wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Jarvan appreciated, even enjoyed, quipping back and forth every now and again. Yet, it certainly wasn’t the occasion for that right now. To highlight the severity of the situation, he’d brought Sylas to the walled gardens behind the White Rooms, rather than their customary meeting place inside. The baths allowed for too much opportunity for either of them to get distracted. Also there were certain conversations you couldn’t have whilst naked. He hoped his introductory phrasing, and overall formality, would indicate to Sylas that what they had to talk about was very serious and should be treated with an appropriate level of gravitas. Needless to say, Sylas ignored this completely.

“Don’t we need to officially be together before you break up with me?”

Jarvan scowled at him before pointing at the seat on the opposite side of his tea table. Despite not being in the baths themselves, the White Rooms had certainly outfitted their guests with every luxury suited to the occasion. Afternoon tea was certainly less…risqué, than their other meetings here. However that didn’t mean they couldn’t spoil themselves over the course of this meeting. The food here was of a similar quality to that back home, without the need to stand on ceremony for it. Three pots of different imported teas stood on ornate pot-holders containing scented candles, providing both a pleasant fragrance and the ability to keep their tea warm. Several tiered trays, intricately painted in Demacian silvers and blues, had been placed about the circular table. These were laden with everything from delicate cucumber sandwiches to generous slices of carrot cake decorated with candied flower petals. All the gilt trimmed tableware matched perfectly, resplendent in their imagery of famous Demacian landscapes captured in minuscule brush strokes. There was certainly enough food and drink here to serve three, if not four. However Sylas hadn’t adjusted out of his habit of wanting to eat everything in front of him yet. Besides, portions were relative. He was sure what this place regarded as a serving for one would barely suffice.

“Alright, what did I do?” Sylas asked as he took his seat. He looked at the array of glittering cutlery and tiny plates, before deciding just to dive in with his hands. Thankfully, they were much cleaner, well-groomed, hands these days. It turned out Sylas brushed up very nicely given the proper facilities and a few changes of clothing. They’d even improvised with an especially baggy shirt and some cloth wraps to cover his manacles. A neat silver-trimmed tunic over the top and a pair of smart trousers later, he looked borderline respectable. They’d have to work on his manners though, considering he was now eating sweet before savoury.

“That’s the issue,” Jarvan told him, picking himself some sandwiches with the tongs provided, “I don’t know yet.”

Sylas raised an eyebrow at him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jarvan sighed. He didn’t like doing this. Not one bit. However, he wasn’t going to sit here pretending to be ignorant whilst things got steadily further from his ability to control them.

“You’ve been out for three months,” he stated, “During that time-“

“I’ve been grateful for every moment,” Sylas cut in, sincerity clear in his tone.

Jarvan smiled at him even as he inwardly groaned. Thank you, Sylas, for making these accusations even more difficult to say.

“During that time,” he repeated, “There’s been three violent factory strikes, four prison breaks, a multitude of assassination attempts at high-class social gatherings, and only yesterday, there was an attack on the Royal Archives themselves. All of which involved magic in some form or another. Were you involved in any of these?”

Sylas appeared to be contemplating his words with all due seriousness. That was a relief, but the longer he simply stared at the table in thought, the more impatient Jarvan became. He had been expecting Sylas to just deny everything. The fact he wasn’t only served to ramp up the tension between tenfold. Jarvan hadn’t wanted to accuse him of crime so soon after he’d got out of prison. Neither did he want Sylas thinking that he had jumped to conclusions because of Sylas’ time spent incarcerated. However, the two time frames matched up and Jarvan had a very good understanding of Sylas’ ideals and aspirations by now. All these incidents would fit very nicely into his plans for societal reform, so Jarvan couldn’t immediately assume he was guilt-free in any of them.

Admittedly, the factory strikes could have happened anyway, however he wasn’t ruling out anything where magic was involved. Protests happened all the time according to the reports from the Home Guard, usually swiftly shut down, but these ones had been particularly explosive. An entire section of the factory district had been turned into a ghost town of empty buildings as workers destroyed the very machinery that gave them their livelihood. The area’s perimeter was now heavily patrolled upon request of the factory owners as they tried to work out what to do with the messes they’d been left with. The workers who hadn’t been arrested were still protesting for better pay and working conditions undeterred, but they had been removed from that section of the district for their own safety. After all the damage caused, there were issues of structural stability that made all the premises around there unsuitable for habitation. He wasn’t sure how an area of uninhabited factories could help Sylas in the slightest, however the protests had definitely drawn the attention of the Home Guard. With so many required in the Factory District, they were being taken away from other areas of the city.

The motive behind the prison breaks were far more obvious. Whilst Stoneguard Prison, the top-security gaol Sylas had been imprisoned in, still stood, large numbers of mages had managed to get out of three other prisons around the capital. One the prisons had two successful escape attempts in the same week, showing the place was clearly not up to the standards required of a mage-prison. The remaining inmates from there had been moved to the top-security gaol, much to Jarvan’s mixed-feelings about the matter. However, the fact remained that there were over a hundred unaccounted for prisoners roaming the city, if they hadn’t managed to get past the walls by now. None of them had been found and the City Guard had swiftly called in reinforcements from the military and the Mageseekers. They were stretched thin enough with the calls from nobility to protect them day-in day-out. The recent assassination attempts and break-ins had put the aristocracy on edge. They demanded both the Crown and the City Guard ramp up security around their homes and places of leisure to prevent further losses. So now they had the military doing the jobs of the City Guard, the City Guard doing the jobs of the Home Guard and most of the Home Guard stuck in one very small part of the city. It was honestly a judiciary mess. And now the military had to bolster the Palace Guard because someone had managed to get into the archives!

Sylas broke his silence, not with the denial that Jarvan had been hoping for, but with a question of:

“Someone really got into the Royal Archives? How did they manage to do that?”

Jarvan gave him a long judgemental look. He wanted to believe Sylas had nothing to do with any of this. He truly did. However there was one very odd circumstance about the archive robbery in particular that begged the question as to Sylas’ involvement. One thing that was just too convenient for him, and them as a couple, to go without further suspicion. As for his current question, he could use that as a starting point in what he hoped would be a civil interrogation. He would either be giving Sylas information he already knew, or just keeping him up to date with current events.

“From the wreckage, they got in by causing an explosion through the outer wall,” Jarvan explained, “The blast killed the guards on station there. The mages clearly had a target in mind – they left the most valuable pieces in there behind and stole about a dozen books. Mostly confiscated magical tomes, historical texts about the inner workings of Demacia, a book on the construction of the palace and… the Royal Registry.”

Jarvan couldn’t help but sigh that last part.

“That’s the one I don’t get,” he told Sylas, “The Royal Registry is effectively a log book for all significant events in the Royal Family. It’s where we mark births and deaths, each new monarch signs and swears upon it when they ascend the throne. It’s also where a royal couple signs when they get married. A change isn’t official for the Royal Family unless it’s in that book.”

“So you can’t get married without it?” Sylas asked, sounding amused through a mouthful of sandwich.

“Yes,” Jarvan replied, “But why on Runeterra would a group of rebel mages want to steal a fanciful ledger about the Royal Family? Every other book had clear value in its information and looked quite clearly targeted for its contents. There was no purpose in taking the registry unless someone wanted to mess with the current wedding proceedings. And very few people even know about those.”

Sylas being one of those select few because of how much he’d complained about having to get married. Jarvan now couldn’t be wed until either the registry was safely recovered, or his father decided to give up the search and start a new one. Considering this could take upwards of months, Jarvan was somewhat grateful for the delay and he was sure Lux was too. However, the only person he could think of, who would want to save him and Lux from their inevitable doom, was currently sitting right in front of him. Jarvan might have even mentioned the registry in one of his rants against the injustice of the procedure, he couldn’t exactly recall. Honestly, he’d have liked Sylas to try and do something to stop his wedding. He’d have been flattered to know that their relationship meant that much to him. However a violent robbery that killed five guards, destroyed part of one of the securest places in Demacia, and put a lot of dangerous knowledge in equally-dangerous hands, was not the method he’d have preferred.

“So you think I nabbed the registry on the way out to make your life a bit easier?” Sylas asked, still sounding like this whole conversation was entertaining him greatly.

“That is something I’ve considered yes,” Jarvan told him, “Please, if you were involved in any of the recent incidents, you have to tell me.”

The complete lack of answers from Sylas wasn’t helping Jarvan’s mood one bit. Yet Sylas just continued to sit there, contemplating him as if Jarvan was spouting nonsense at him. After a few minutes in which Jarvan tried to calm his nerves with a cup of tea, Sylas asked:

“Do you think I’m that eager to go back to prison?”

“Stop asking questions and answer mine!” Jarvan demanded, bringing his teacup back down onto the table with such force that it rattled the saucer, spraying tea across the fine porcelain. Would he just stop that?! He couldn’t keep answering every accusation with a question! Not if he wanted to remain free of suspicion! Jarvan took his hands off the table and ran one over his face.

“You know I’m not sending you back there whatever you’ve done,” he confessed, frustration growling its way into his voice, “All I want is some honesty. I want to be able to fix up this mess knowing that I’m not going to find you standing at the heart of it all. Because…because I haven’t decided what to do if that turns out to be the case.”

Sylas was way too calm about this. He didn’t like it. He especially didn’t like how amused he seemed by all these very serious accusations. He gave a casual shrug before taking a sip from one of the milk-jugs – forgoing tea and saucers completely.

“Alright, honesty it is.”

Jarvan sat up a little straighter in his seat. Thank the walls! Please say they were getting somewhere with this!

“Well first,” Sylas added, “I want to remind you of these.”

He tapped his cloth-wrapped manacles.

“Still wearing a ton of petricite, if someone’s doing magic out there it’s not going to be me.”

“I understand,” Jarvan told him, before gesturing for him to continue. Unfortunately all the masons trained in working with petricite were under royal employment. That meant finding one to remove Sylas’ shackles had proved immensely difficult – resulting in the fact that he was still wearing them after all this time.

“Also, it was my understanding that the walls around the palace were also made of petricite,” Sylas continued, “Is that right?”

Jarvan nodded.

“So they probably had some regular explosives if they wanted to get in,” Sylas added, “Though I can’t really deny mages were involved if they stole a bunch of magic-related texts. The registry is odd, and I’m glad it’s put your wedding plans on hold, but they probably just mistook it for another fancy magic tome.”

Jarvan let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Right. It sounded like Sylas hadn’t been involved in the robbery at least, if he needed to flesh out the details of what happened like this. But what about all the rest? Even if he couldn’t cast any magic himself, he could still be involved. To be honest, it seemed unlikely he’d be trying to assassinate anyone right now. He wasn’t exactly the stealthiest with his current lack of magic and heavy encumbrances. Yet, if there was a wider plan at work here…

“As I told you a few weeks ago,” Sylas continued, “I managed to make my way into the Mage Underground. I got in, but getting into their good graces is hard when most of them believe the lies the papers ran about me. Bloody annoying that the people I’m trying to help are just as brainwashed by those shitty stories as everyone else. Getting them to trust me feels like running into a brick wall over and over, and I did enough of that in prison.”

He took another swig from the jug and Jarvan realised that wasn’t milk, but pouring cream for the desserts. If he must… Hopefully he wasn’t going to make himself sick.

“They’re not going to share anything confidential with me quite yet,” Sylas informed him, “So if there’s a big plan going on with all these separate attacks, I’m not in on it. Though I definitely went and helped destroy a few walls at those factories. Those people are just like the folk I grew up around, trying to get the better lives my parents never had. Can you really blame me?”

“No,” Jarvan sighed, “No, not when you put it like that. Just please, don’t draw too much attention to yourself. I’m not sure I can get you out a second time.”

He was admittedly feeling slightly better about the situation now. If all Sylas had done was help with the strikes, then there was less for him to worry about where he was concerned. Slightly more pressing was the fact that this could all still be tied to the Mage Underground and they had no way of knowing. He was sure Sylas would give him updates if he had any, but as it stood… He didn’t want to buckle down on anti-mage precautions knowing that innocent people would get hurt because of it. Also, did they really have the resources right now? Every force was so stretched thin with all this chaos, could he launch an investigation on top of that? No. Even without looking at the statistics, he knew he’d either have to pull additional forces from neighbouring towns or use men thoroughly unsuited to peaceful questioning of civilians. He couldn’t add an extra layer of panic on top the existing unrest.

However, it was becoming increasingly difficult to shake the feeling that this was all leading up to something big. Like puzzle pieces falling into place, or the elaborate mechanisms of some great machine whirring into life. All these events appeared separate, but together they’d had the desired effect of weakening the might of the city’s guard. If this hadn’t been orchestrated by some shadowy hand, it was one hell of a coincidence. Jarvan had enough military experience to know that nothing could truly be credited to fate. Yet unlike his previous campaigns, he barely had enough information to start planning their next advance. Wars could only be fought well when backed up with plentiful resources – men, supplies and good information. He was lacking all of those right now. Honestly? This frightened him.

“If I promise to be careful,” Sylas replied, “Can I ask something again?”

“Yes,” Jarvan said, “If you promise.”

He picked up his tea again to prove his composure. It took a masterful sense of a calm and a practiced grip to use little teacups like these when you had a warrior’s hands. That was probably why Sylas hadn’t bothered.

“Well, I promise not to get myself thrown back behind bars,” Sylas told him, a smirk lifting his lips as he went back for more food, “So here’s what I want to know – Do you trust me?”

Jarvan should have expected that. In fact, he’d been so reluctant to throw around accusations for exactly this reason. He didn’t want his line of inquiry to ruin what bond they had built up over the last year or so. Whatever they had, neither of them had really put a name to it yet, was worth preserving. He hoped that Sylas found his company as much of a breath of fresh air as he did. Stepping out of the palace and being with someone open and honest, so unlike all the officials and aristocrats he had to deal with on a daily basis, was a pleasure he couldn’t give up. Sometimes Sylas might infuriate him, tease him to the point where Jarvan forgot his noble airs and graces, but those moments had never been particularly bad once they’d grown closer and set their prejudices aside. He wasn’t going to say it out loud, Sylas would be unbearably smug if he did, but sometimes he liked being distracted from his usual etiquette. There was something very satisfying about just saying everything that sprung to mind in the moment. It felt especially good to be able to curse without having everyone in the room look at you like you’d offended their mothers. Admittedly his language only tended to stray that far whilst they were… well. He had done more cursing in the last few months than he had in the last few years. Back to the question at hand though , he would never have let Sylas put him in a position where he would be cursing, if he didn’t trust the man.

“When we’re alone together, yes,” he told Sylas, “I wouldn’t have consented to half of what we’ve got up to if I didn’t trust you. You’ve never harmed me despite having copious opportunities to take me by surprise.”

“Instead I just took you up-“

Jarvan didn’t let him finish that statement.

“But out there by yourself?” he continued, “With all the chances to rebel against the society that hurt you? I’m not saying you don’t deserve justice but I get the feeling you could cause ungodly amounts of chaos if left to your own devices.”

Sylas actually laughed at that.

“So you trust me to fuck you, but not when it comes to fucking over society, is that it?”

So crude. Jarvan was starting to think he coarsened his language on purpose just to get a reaction out of him. It certainly worked.

“In other terms, yes,” Jarvan replied, “And I want to trust you to…not dismantle everything by yourself, but you’ve had a lot of time to plan how to make that happen.”

Sylas grinned and took another gulp from the cream jug.

“Don’t worry, if I decide to dismantle something that isn’t a factory wall, you’ll be the first one to know.”

That line of conversation ended as ominously as it had begun. The topic changed to the factory strikes as Sylas extolled the virtues of this form of action. From what Jarvan had gathered from various reports over the course of the events, the workers were fully justified in their protests. However the crown wasn’t supposed to interfere in private industry, all they could really do was pass laws and occasionally send inspectors. They were going to have to take a look at both those areas when they had the time. And by ‘they’ he meant his father and the council of Lords and Ladies. It had occurred to him that some of the nobility on that council might own the land where the factories had been built. However, it was proving impossible for him to juggle factory ownership, mage rights, and organising the military all by himself. He had to believe that the council would do something about the protests so he could concentrate on the other two. Technically the latter was his chief responsibility, however even through this chaotic period, he couldn’t drop his investigations. He would be letting hundreds of innocent people suffer needlessly if he didn’t try to push on with compiling his reports. He just had to hope he’d find the moment to present them through all this trouble.

A fortnight after that tense round of afternoon tea, Jarvan was summoned into a meeting with every General stationed in the capital. The atmosphere at this so-called ‘talk’ could better be described as a war council. Despite having some of the most influential military minds all together in one room, the session so far had proved to be a complete rehashing of everything Jarvan already knew. Their forces were stretched thin. The military was now more involved with whole troops patrolling the Silk and Higher Districts. A few days ago a high society ball had been attacked, burning down a city manor and taking many of its guests with it. It had not been lost on Jarvan that the ball had been mostly attended by aristocrats practicing law – judges, barristers, high-ranking officers and their families. Many of whom were responsible for bringing the harsher anti-mage legislation before the crown. Needless to say the upper classes were now in a state of panic once they’d realised not even those who made laws were safe. They demanded constant patrols, a clear military presence day and night to deter future threats, and anyone worth anything was demanding the Crown gave them some sort of bodyguard or personal security set up. It was frankly exhausting to think about. These people didn’t care that they weren’t the only ones in danger. The protests had stretched across the entire factory district, as one workplace drew inspiration from another. As far as Jarvan could tell from the Home Guard accounts, the use of magic there had mostly died out. However, you didn’t need magic to incite a rebellious spirit in the poor and downtrodden. There were now more Home Guard in the Factory District than the rest of the capital combined. Which meant the City Guard were now spread across the rest of the city, dealing with the petty crime the Home Guard were supposed to manage. The Capital was growing ever more restless with this increasing chaos. Large swathes of the population were completely unaffected of course, but that didn’t stop them reading the news and worrying. If they started panicking and demanding extra protection… Well, at the very least, Jarvan was going to start pulling out his hair in frustration. 

He was about to order everyone to stop talking about what they couldn’t do and start coming up with new ideas, when there was a loud knocking on the window behind him. Everyone turned to see that there was a single messenger hawk sat on the window sill waiting to be let in. Jarvan gestured for someone to do that. They did, and brought the scroll to him. He instantly recognised the seal of the Warden of Stoneguard Prison – the very place Sylas had been incarcerated. He cracked it open at once to scan the contents.

Well…

Damn it.

He passed the scroll to his left before leaning heavily on the table. The assembled Generals instantly played a hurried game of Pass-the-Scroll, leaning over each other’s heavily armoured shoulders to get a better look. Perhaps he should have summarised it for them, but Jarvan was already struggling to process what this must mean.

There had been a breakout at Stoneguard.

And not just any breakout.

A breakout that had happened some time ago without anyone noticing.

Apparently, the Prison Guards had gone to make their ‘weekly’ inspection and simply found four holding areas devoid of prisoners. No signs of a struggle, just open doors and empty cages, and a trail of footprints leading nowhere. The Warden was baffled and had been keen to express in her letter how secure and impenetrable her prison’s walls were. Well they clearly weren’t if goodness knows how many prisoners had escaped! If you checked on your prisoners at most once a week, how could you call your prison remotely secure?! Who even knew how many escaped mages that was! There was nothing he could do about that right now without better information. He called for the Warden to be brought here personally to explain herself before turning back to his fellow Generals.

“Can anyone tell me where one might hide hundreds of escaped prisoners?” he asked of them all, “Because that’s how many we’re dealing with now. I think we can agree that all these incidents across the city cannot be isolated coincidences. Now, what do we do about them?”

They stared at him; expressions severe but thoroughly silent. He glared around at them all.

“Let’s lay down the facts, shall we?” Jarvan continued, gesturing over the meeting table which had been covered in a highly detailed map of the Capital. Various wooden markers indicated the troops of the Home Guard, City Guard and factions of the Military respectively.

“We have the Home Guard are concentrated in the Factory District with a token force still stationed in the three largest residential districts. Nothing is getting in or out of the Factory District without drawing a lot of attention from either the Guard or the protestors. The City Guard are now spread thin from the Market District here, up to the borders of Higher and Silk.”

He picked up the appropriate hook and used it to shove a scattering of City Guard markers across the map. As his general scrambled to make the map look neat, the tokens were spread even further, only one marker per district – it wasn’t an encouraging sight.

“Half the military is now in Higher, Silk and the Guild Districts,” Jarvan continued, “However the military presence in those districts doesn’t seem to deterring those particular assailants at all.”

Those were thankfully already marked out on the map.

“We should note that Stoneguard shares a border with the Higher District, as does the outer perimeter of the palace closest to where the Archive robbery happened. Logic dictates that whatever or whoever is orchestrating this mass chaos is based in, or at least has clear access to, the Higher District. They clearly know the district well enough to carry off their attacks without alerting our forces until it is too late to summon an adequate protective force. Also, it is one of the few districts with properties capable of hiding large numbers of people.”

“Your highness,” piped up one General, “Are you suggesting that we search the entire Higher District?”

“Yes, as a start,” Jarvan replied, “And I know this will be a very unpopular decision with the noble classes, however I think at this point we can start to move them in the name of their own saf-“

He was suddenly interrupted by the ringing of a bell.

Anyone who was sitting down was instantly on their feet. Blades were drawn, spears readied, bows taken from their quivers. This was not a bell Jarvan had heard before, but anyone with the most basic of military training should know what this meant.

The palace was under siege.

Or at least some part of it. The archive robbery hadn’t been severe enough to warrant the bell. Which meant this was no robbery.

“Stations! Everyone! Now!” Jarvan barked, “Assume Siege Protocol. Go!”

The attendees scattered. Jarvan followed in hot pursuit, heart pounding as the bell continued to violently clang for the entire palace to hear. Siege Protocol dictated that the Royal Family be secured within the throne room under the strictest of guards. However, there was no way he was going to sit back whilst his home was under threat. He had come to the meeting armed and ready, mainly to give his Generals a sense of urgency, but he’d never been more thankful for needless posturing. The clank of armour filled the stone passageways as he chased his Generals down three sets of stairs and out into the main antechamber that connected the administrative block with the rest of the palace.

“Your Highness! Prince Jarvan!”

About to follow everyone towards the barracks, Jarvan nevertheless stopped at the sound of his name. He caught sight of Garen standing by the door to the audience hall, barking orders at an entire troop of Royal Guards. As Jarvan stormed into the room, he broke off from his men to address the prince.

“Ga- Crownguard, what do you have to report?” Jarvan called, now rushing over to him. He waved off Garen’s, and the guards’, attempt to salute and bow. It really wasn’t the time for that.

“What’s happening?” he demanded.

“The King has been secured in the throne room, your highness,” Garen reported, “Guards have been stationed upon every entrance, no one will be getting in and out of there until the palace has been deemed safe and-“

Jarvan appreciated his friend’s assurances, but the situation called for action more than words right now.

“Thank you,” he interrupted, “What is happening out there?”

He pointed in the direction everyone else had gone running. Garen visibly grimaced.

“I’m afraid we don’t know your highness. Our imperative was to secure the King first as per Siege Protocol, before making a move towards the conflict.”

“And you’ve done that excellently,” Jarvan assured him and the men behind Garen, before focusing his attention back on his friend, “Come. We can’t do anything so removed from the action like this. Follow, and be ready. ”

Garen nodded, hefting his blade as they set their sights upon the exit. He obediently followed Jarvan through increasingly empty corridors. The sheer lack of people, the sheer lack of anything, was starting to concern Jarvan immensely. Naturally people would either take arms or hide away from the danger, however he expected more to be happening in the wake of such alarm. Where was the fighting? The Siege Bell was going off. So where was the siege? He couldn’t hear any sounds of conflict. Only that frantically ringing bell. The Generals were so far ahead of him by now that he expected at least one of them to send a scout or a hawk back his way. Yet, the corridors were silent except for the clank of their armour and the ring of their footfalls. Even as they burst out a side entrance and into the grounds, there was no one in sight. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

“Your Highness! Look!”

Garen’s shout came a moment too late. Jarvan almost slid and tripped on the gravel path as he skidded to a halt in the face of what he’d just spotted.

Smoke.

An enormous plume of black smoke, greater than the castle’s tallest tower, had erupted from where Jarvan knew the barracks to be. He could make out a mass of people surrounding the military complex in the distance. Yet they seemed to be standing helplessly in front of the furious red glow that was now issuing from the cluster of buildings. As they watched, the silhouettes of an entire flock of messenger birds took to the air, narrowly avoiding the roiling pillar of smoke as they dispersed throughout the city. They were hopefully seeking help. There were wells in the military complex, but how did you put out a fire on this scale? Jarvan had been expecting a battle, an assault on the palace’s walls by armed men, not… this. He knew how to fight armies. But there was nothing he could do in the face of such…

**BOOM**

The ground quaked beneath their feet.

There was a chorus of shouts and screams from across the grounds. Shrapnel rained from the sky as people began to flee the area surrounding the complex. Garen set off sprinting towards the wreckage even as the ground began to shake with a greater intensity beneath their feet. Jarvan stared at the gravel below him. It was jumping like debris upon the face of the drum as the earth continued to move beneath their feet.

**BOOM**

“STOP!” Jarvan called after Garen. Throwing up a hand as if he could grab the man by the back of his cape. Yet Garen was already too far for him to reach.

That explosion hadn’t come from the barracks. No. It felt stronger. Closer. The ground had almost rippled with the force of it, gravel flying in every direction around him as the surface beneath his feet bent with the impact. Jarvan was forced to bend low into a crouch just to keep his balance. He stuck the end of his spear into the ground in an attempt to remain upright.

Garen stopped and turned just as the doors to the palace were flung open behind Jarvan. An outpouring of troops came to surround the prince, and with them, came a voice he certainly didn’t expect to hear in the middle of a siege.

“Your highness! Your highness!”

Lux!

What on Runeterra was she doing here?! This was no place for a cadet, especially one with such inadequate ornamental armour as hers! Hell, she was never supposed to see conflict!

“Luxanna, get somewhere safe!” Jarvan ordered, “That’s an order!”

“No!” Lux called back, pushing through soldiers to reach him, “No, Prince Jarvan! Listen! They’re-”

“Go back!” Garen shouted, now sprinting back towards Jarvan again, “LUX! Go inside! It’s not-“

**BOOM**

Garen let out a strangled cry as he tripped and fell. He tried to get to his feet even as the ground started to shake and split around him. Jarvan couldn’t help but yell himself as suddenly great fissures formed in the ground beneath their feet. Jarvan signalled for his guards to back up towards the palace. However Garen was still many yards away, seemingly in the epicentre of these enormous cracks forming in the earth. The surface beneath his feet was too unstable for him to get a stable footing. As soon as he was up on his knees, his weight would crush through the loose soil, sinking him an inch or two further into the trembling earth.

“Garen!” Jarvan cried,

“Your highness!” Lux exclaimed, “Your highness listen to me!”

“Not now!” Jarvan barked, “Get inside or I will have someone make-“

**BOOM**

“THEY’RE UNDERGROUND!” Lux screamed at the top of her lungs.

Jarvan heard her, but he was too busy yelling himself.

“GAREN!”

**BOOM**

With an immense cracking sound and the loudest explosion yet, the ground erupted into a shower of rock, grass and gravel. The assembled forces raised their shields against the rain of debris, shielding Jarvan and Lux as they did so. However, Jarvan immediately leapt out of their clutches as the smoke and dirt cleared from the air around them.

“Garen?!”

He couldn’t see his best friend anywhere. Just an enormous shadowy hole in the ground. Jarvan lifted his spear, pointing it in the direction of the opening as his heart felt like it was hammering against his armour. It was impossible. Garen had to be down there somewhere. It would take more than a tumble through a hole to stop one of Demacia’s finest. Yet even as he took a cautious step towards the dark gap, that sense of sheer wrongness sought to overwhelm him once more. He beckoned for the troops to follow him as he trod ever so slowly towards the crater. It was the middle of the day, there was no reason why the chasm should be so dark. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as if by static and a whiff of smoke met his nose as he got that bit closer.

Magic.

It had to be.

“Garen?” Lux called weakly from behind the front lines, “Brother?”

Then Jarvan heard it.

A murmur.

Followed by a chorus of murmurs.

And then a voice.

A distinctly and horrifically familiar voice.

“Ah. So this is your pal with benefits? You really like them big, don’t you?”

Jarvan stepped back, almost treading on the soldier behind him as the magical darkness lifted. He struggled to remain impassive as he raised his spear to the first sign of people emerging from the crater. 

They weren’t just people either. An army began to rise from the depths of the earth. An army led by…

“Sylas?”

The soldiers behind him hesitated, unsure whether they were meant to be striking not. Lux let out a little cry of ‘no’ as Sylas strode up a smooth earthen ramp that now led into the palace grounds. In one hand he was dragging the limp form of Garen behind him by the cape. In the other, he held a spectral shimmering version of Garen’s blade. Jarvan stared at it, wide eyed with horror, then back to Sylas’ grinning face. He could barely believe it but… he couldn’t deny what was right in front of him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked, trying to sound less shocked than he was.

Sylas laughed. It was the same laugh he’d given over afternoon tea. The same laugh he’d used when he’d teased Jarvan over his airs and graces. The same laugh he’d heard so many times before. But not like this. Never like this. How could it be the same laugh?!

“What do you think I’m doing Princeling?” Sylas retorted, dropping Garen on the ground at the top of the ramp. He released the chains coiled around his arms as he raised the copy of Garen’s blade above his head, fixing Jarvan with a wicked grin.

“Let me introduce you to a little thing I like to call… ‘Societal Reform’.”

A bright beam of light shot up into the air through the upturned blade. Lux let out a little scream as yet more beams of light, in many different hues and intensities, lit up from all round the palace grounds. The crater was suddenly a cacophony of war cries as they were beset by wave after wave of angry screaming people with fists aglow. An entire army of mages, bent on their destruction, surged up from beneath the palace grounds. Jarvan cursed under his breath as soldiers surged forth around him, ready to defend their prince. These attackers were the very people he wanted to help but they had given him no choice. They had invaded the palace, burnt down the barracks, caused untold chaos throughout the capital…. He took a deep breath before bellowing over the din of combat:

“GIVE NO QUARTER! FOR DEMACIA!”

There was an echoing roar as the Royal Guard leapt into the fray with greater ferocity, shields out, blades high. Jarvan swung his spear into the closest mage, knocking them aside with a sickening crack and a spray of blood across the gravel. Pillars of flame suddenly erupted from the ground a few feet away, scorching guard and mage alike. As Jarvan forced back a pair of assailants, he saw that the palace grounds were swiftly becoming filled with separate battles converging into one. Another fight had erupted beside the flaming barracks. Something huge was silhouetted against the glow. Something the shape of a bear, but far too large and spikey to be a bear, was surrounded by shield-bearing soldiers thrusting their javelins at the beast. A series of cloaked figures were using the monster as cover, firing coloured bolts at the struggling defenders who were swiftly being overcome.

Whilst deflecting the blows of a mage with fists made of solid rock, Jarvan saw several large shapes pass over head by their shadows. An ear-piercing series of shrieks announced the arrival of the Silverwing Squadron and a new dimension to the battlefield. Horns blasted from above as griffin riders filled the skies. The mages on the ground instantly directed their spells skywards, the cacophony of screeching, shouts and blast-fire almost deafening in its magnitude. Jarvan knew for a fact that, for some of these guards, this would be the first real conflict they’d ever seen. Yet there was no time to step back, rally and reorganise. No time for him to spare when attempt after attempt was being made on his own life. He was left juggling his own safety as he did everything he could to keep his army upright, keep what men he had alive. Sweat dripped from his brow as he rallied the troops he could reach into better formations. Assisted clusters of archers onto the height of the steps in the hopes they would have better reach. He passed back lost javelins as he cut a swathe back and forth across the battlefield. Despite the merging of each front, their main adversaries were all pouring out of the same opening. He had those equipped for range focus fire on the never-ending torrent of mages pouring from the opening, whittling down their numbers before they could get out to the battle proper. However, their numbers seemed endless and Jarvan only had a few troops here with him on the ground and less so in the air. He signalled to the Silverwing horn-blowers to try calling for more reinforcements, hoping the military stationed in the Higher District were already on their way. A second bell had joined the first from elsewhere in the palace, barely audible over the chaos, but Jarvan dearly hoped it would bring more men in his direction.

Yet, even over the clanging of bells, the screeches of griffins, and the trampling of feet, Jarvan couldn’t help but pick out one voice above all others.

“Get out the way fool! The prince is mine!”

Even as he warded off yet more assailants, Jarvan couldn’t let that challenge go unanswered. Sometimes the only way to end an assault was to cut off its head. Go for the leader and hope the rest would crumble. Besides, this conflict, these whole chaotic few months, had now become deeply personal.

“Sylas!” he bellowed over the din, “Sylas face me, you dastard!”

He cut a path through the battle in the direction of Sylas’ voice. Ignoring the protests of his men, he broke into a sprint, gripping his spear tighter with every foot’s distance he closed between them. As he ran, he realised how hypocritical what he about to do was. For all appearances, this was a battle between mages and the ones who would oppress those who used magic. Yet… He hadn’t thought of it like this before, but there was nothing normal about the weapons of Demacia’s highest ranking officers. Hell, Garen’s sword was probably more magical than most of the equipment here. Yet even Garen’s sword couldn’t do what he was about to. What he was about to conjure knowing full well how he’d railed against the very existence of magic in the past.

He caught sight of Sylas now far across the grounds from the location of his dramatic entrance. He wasn’t alone either. Metal crashed against metal as Garen, heavily bruised and bleeding down the side of his face, tried to force his way past the spectral copy of his own blade. Yet it was clear Sylas didn’t even need the sword to hold his own. When the copy flickered and died, Garen tried to press his advantage. But no, Sylas gripped his chains, striking with them as if the heavy metal links were as light as parchment. When it looked like Garen might land a hit, Sylas caught his blade between his stone manacles and wrenched the strike aside. Jarvan wanted to shout for Garen to back off, but a single distraction to their duel could prove fatal. Instead he pushed himself even harder, charging spear first towards the conflict, just as a scream sounded from somewhere to his left.

“GET AWAY FROM HIM!”

An enormous blast of coloured light cut across the battlefield. Both Garen and Sylas had a split second to react, each diving away from the beam as if from a speeding cannonball. Garen crashed into the ground, shielding his head behind his arms. Sylas dropped and rolled, putting a great distance between himself and his opponent. Jarvan had just enough time to spot Lux standing, drenched in blood, but pointing at where the duel had been with a mage’s staff. That… That was an issue for another time! Lux’s interruption had provided him with the opportunity he needed. Running full pelt at Sylas, he leapt into the air before slamming his spear down on the ground, hard. 

A flash of golden light. Followed by the sound of the ground tearing itself apart to reach him. Jagged pillars of rock burst forth in a ring around himself and Sylas. The rest of the battle was obscured from view, a solid wall separating any interference from getting inside.

“Stealing me away for yourself again?” huffed Sylas as he got to his feet, “Typical.”

Jarvan felt his fingernails dig through the lining of his gloves as he gripped his spear hard enough to stop his hands from shaking.

“You lied to me!” he retorted, “You promised you weren’t involved!”

“I promised not to end up in gaol again,” Sylas reminded him with a smirk, “Doing pretty well, I think.”

Jarvan gritted his teeth in rage as they began to circle each other. The walls providing them with an arena befitting of a fight to the death. He didn’t want it to go that far, but who even knew what Sylas wanted anymore? This hurt far more than he could readily admit. He had trusted him. Against all his better judgement, against the nagging of his own thoughts, he had taken Sylas’ assurances as truth. And if he’d fallen for those lies…how many other lies had there been over the last year?

“You’ve been lying to me for months,” Jarvan hissed, “About the Mage Underground. About what you’ve been up to. About everything!”

“Not everything,” Sylas shrugged, “Just enough to keep you out of interrupting this.”

“This?” Jarvan repeated, “This is madness! You’re only going to turn the entire population against mages forever!”

“Only if we lose.”

Sylas settled into a fighting stance; chain gripped in his left hand whilst the other balled into a fist. Jarvan held his ground, spear readied, expression set in a grimace. Part of his brain was screaming at him not to do this. That they were about to cross a line they would never be able to retreat back over. However, retreat had never been option for as long as Jarvan had held a spear. It was his duty to Demacia to keep it safe from threats like these. Even if it involved breaking what had felt like such a steadfast bond. Though had that bond really existed in the first place? He wasn’t sure anymore.

“I won’t go easy on you,” he informed Sylas, “Just because of the time we shared.”

“Please,” Sylas snickered, “When have ever I asked you to be gentle with me?”

Jarvan attempted not to focus on the inappropriate inflection in his words. Even now Sylas was trying to tease and fluster him. Had that been a weapon all along? A practice for this?

“Come on Princeling,” Sylas taunted, “I know you like it rough. Bring it.”

It was a terrible tactical error to engage your foe on their terms. But Jarvan wasn’t thinking tactically right now. How could he when the man who knew his every secret, his every vulnerability, was looking at him like that? Like every ounce of sympathy and trust he had put into this relationship had been a catastrophic mistake. Yelling at the top of his lungs, he charged. If he’d been in his right mind, he’d have shouted something like ‘for Demacia’ or ‘for Justice’. Instead what came out was a garbled rendition of

“Did we mean ANYTHING?”

The moment he set off running, Sylas came to meet him midway. His spear bounced off solid stone as Sylas blocked his initial thrust and took a swing at the side of his head.

“Nice magic stick you’ve got there,” Sylas commented as he swung a chain at Jarvan’s head. He easily dodged.

“I saw the sword,” Jarvan retorted, “The beam. You said you can’t use magic!”

He whirled his spear like a combat staff, trying to knock Sylas’ feet from under him but the length of Sylas’ right-hand chain wrapped around the end, almost tearing the weapon from his grip. Jarvan kicked away the chain before whipping around to catch Sylas’ next blow between the spikes of the spear’s head.

“Yeah, I lied about that too,” Sylas told him, “Bit more to petricite than I first thought.”

“What that’s supposed to mean?” Jarvan spat. Sylas’ next swing sailed past his helmet, giving him a sudden view of the very petricite he spoke of.

“Petricite doesn’t just drain magic, it stores it,” Sylas proclaimed, taking a step back as he took a chain in each hand, “All that magic your lot takes away from us? Stored away in the city walls, ready to be used, ready to be stored in weapons like your golden stick there. But you know what? Every bit of magic that’s been drawn from my body, the body of my cellmates, the body of your fiancé? It’s here. It’s back. It’s going to tear those walls down!”

His manacles glowed, giving Jarvan a moment’s warning before a now familiar beam of light rocketed across the battlefield. He dodged as it struck one wall of the circle, making shake and begin to crumble. Another hit like that and the wall would certainly come down.

“Face the facts princeling,” Sylas growled as Jarvan took another swing at him, “You’re out-numbered, out-powered, and out of time. Your forces are mess, stretched all over the place and too far to come back you up. The very walls of your city are magically-infused bombs, ready to be detonated by those who now know how. One signal from me and this city is rubble.”

Jarvan wasn’t convinced by that last part as he dodged a flurry of blows.

“You won’t,” he told Sylas, “The man I know you are won’t harm the ordinary working people of this city. The man who supports rioting factory workers doesn’t decimate those trying to make an honest living.”

Sylas laughed again. He easily ducked under yet another sweep of Jarvan’s spear.

“Sure, but what about this edifice to hypocrisy I’ve got in front of me? An entire palace made of petricite. Full of people who don’t give a shit about making a ‘honest living?’”

“That’s not true,” Jarvan spat, “We’re trying to make a difference! Even for the mages! I’ve been trying to help you!”

This seemed to infuriate Sylas for the next swing came a lot closer to Jarvan’s chest than it had previously. It suddenly occurred to Jarvan that he could’ve been hitting that close all this time. Was Sylas pulling his blows?

“Whilst you pansied around with paperwork, people died!” Sylas exclaimed, “Your way doesn’t work, you-!”

“People are dying right now!” Jarvan interrupted, “Because you turned this into a war!”

“You can’t change the rules by obeying them!” Sylas declared, “Since when has asking nicely ever worked? Your way was never going to succeed whilst this ruling class still stands!”

Jarvan didn’t want to admit it, but he had a point there. The biggest obstacle was always going to be preaching to the unbelievers. The very people who wanted and organised the culling of magecraft in the first place. He’d hoped, with enough irrefutable evidence, that they’d learn to listen. However his faith in that method wasn’t exactly confident. Still, Sylas wasn’t right in the way he was trying to go about this either!

“The more you destroy, the less likely you’ll ever get the equality you deserve,” he told Sylas, “You won’t change anyone’s minds like this! So stop this madness before I force you to!”

Accenting his words with a ferocious jab towards Sylas’ chest, he lunged forwards, only for Sylas to deflect the stab with one manacle.

“Force me to?” he scoffed, “Please, nothing is going to change until you stop pretending you want to hit me and hit me.”

Jarvan blinked at him, momentarily stopping in his tracks. What was that supposed to mean? What was he-

“You’re holding back,” Sylas stated, “Either of us could’ve ended this at any point we wanted. You know, with something like this.”

Before Jarvan could work out what the hell he was doing, Sylas took hold of Jarvan’s spear with both hands. Suddenly the metal grew incredibly heavy, ten times its regular weight at least, the enormous multi-barbed head dropping to the floor, its golden glow utterly extinguished. It quickly became too heavy for Jarvan’s shaking hands to endure, falling from his grip, as Sylas’ hands began to glow with the same golden sheen the metal had once born. But that wasn’t the only thing growing heavier. The spear hadn’t even touched the ground before the plates on Jarvan’s shoulders began to feel like they were crushing him downwards. His helmet felt like it was trying to press down on his skull, squeezing his head until it became too painful to bear.

“What…what are you doing?” Jarvan gasped, fight forgotten as he tried to wrestle off his helm. Yet even his gauntlets felt like they had been suddenly turned to lead. His muscles strained as he tried to raise his arms, now feeling like he was the one shackled in stone.

“Enchanted weapon, enchanted armour, what’s next, enchanted underpants?” Sylas chuckled, “Looks like all this gold, spikes and ridiculous ornamentation adds some serious weight to your look. No wonder they had to enchant it all so much lighter.”

Jarvan sank to the ground, gasping as he tried to deal with the enormous mass now weighing him down. He fumbled for the straps of his gauntlet as he attempted to do something, anything, to free of himself of the armour that had now become his restraints.

“What…what are you waiting for?” he gasped at Sylas, glancing up at him through watering eyes as his helm sought to crush his skull, “You…I’m at your mercy. You could kill me.”

Sylas crouched down to get a better look at his helplessness. Jarvan felt Sylas lift off his helmet before tossing it aside. The release enabled him to look up at his smug expression all the better. Sylas reached forward to take his chin in one hand, making sure his gaze couldn’t stray from Sylas’ own as he ran one bloodstained finger across Jarvan’s cheek, smearing crimson as he went.

“Oh, you’ve been at my mercy so many times. Never once have I wanted to kill you.”

Jarvan wanted to spit, struggle, move, anything! However he could barely shift under the weight of his armour. His mind struggled to process what Sylas was doing, why he was saying what he’d said. He wasn’t going to kill him? Why? What was the purpose of fighting at all if he didn’t want to act on his goal of tearing down the Royal Family? He feebly jerked away from Sylas’ grip as he felt Sylas start to wind his chains around Jarvan’s arms and torso.

“You look good like this,” Sylas teased him, “Tied up, flushed, at my mercy. Maybe we should’ve played around with this before I went ruined what relationship we had.”

“Relationship?” Jarvan spluttered as Sylas hauled him up into a kneeling position, “Wasn’t that another one of your lies?”

“No,” Sylas stated simply, as pulled out a knife and sliced through the straps of Jarvan’s chest and shoulder plate. Jarvan found himself gasping for air as soon as they fell to the ground with a clank. Sylas seemed to have deigned him fit to move for he tugged on the thick knot of chain now attaching them together.

“Come, princeling,” he ordered, “We’ve got a battle to end, a war to win… and a visit with your precious Daddy.”

Jarvan wrenched himself to his feet with the aid of Sylas’ insistent pull. He should be retorting to that. Demanding what Sylas wanted with the King. But that simple ‘no’ had silenced him far more effectively that any strict command. As every part of him protested and ached, he let Sylas lead him towards that weakened section of wall. He glanced back at his spear and bits of armour, lying forlornly in their own crater on the ground. Even if Sylas didn’t want to finish him off, one stray bolt out there, a misplaced javelin… it would be over.

“Don’t look so forlorn,” Sylas told him, a smirk playing at his lips as he pressed them to Jarvan’s blood and ash strewn cheek, “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

A slam of his fist and the wall crumbled. Sylas took a deep breath as he surveyed the ongoing chaos.

“Alright,” he declared, “Let’s change Demacia. Together.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylas' revolution is going amazingly well. Until suddenly it isn't.

Well, this was going swimmingly! Sylas had spent months formulating this plan, with the best minds the Mage Underground had to offer, and even he hadn’t expected it to go quite this well. He suspected that if Jarvan had truly wished to hurt him, they might still be locked in combat within that little arena he’d created. An impressive feat of stolen magic if ever he’d seen one – one that Sylas could now replicate if he so wished. The fact that all these elite Demacian soldiers were fuelled by magic had made his life so much easier. Admittedly, he wasn’t expecting a man to fall from the sky when he’d burst his way out into the palace grounds. However, the fact that man was practically gift-wrapped in enchanted armour and a magical sword was a sign that today was truly Sylas’ day. The fact that said man had been Lux’ brother and Jarvan’s best friend had also been interesting, but overall irrelevant to the task at hand. He’d taken the supply offered to him before making what he considered a rather grandiose entrance. The look of utter betrayal on the prince’s face hadn’t been exactly pleasant, but this was war. You weren’t supposed to enjoy much of it.

Still, it was hard to feel bad about their chances when the pieces had slotted so expertly into place. The Demacian Army was stretched so thin trying to protect its wailing nobles that there weren’t nearly enough around to protect the palace. Most of the City Guard were nowhere near the area, having been deployed to occupy the roles the Home Guard could not. And the Home Guard? Well, Sylas admittedly hadn’t expected the Factory Protests to pick up such momentum. All he’d really wanted was the space around the three empty warehouse lots to be cleared so he and the Mage Underground could set up a base with easy access to the tunnel network beneath the city. Using Lux’s map of the underground network, they’d been able to set up pockets of rebels all over the capital. The main headquarters was of course in the Factory District – kept concealed by the sheer amount of noise and chaos that currently reigned there. The largest entrance into the main tunnel network was indeed the three large empty factories at its southern-most reaches. That was a lot of space to go unused so the Mage Underground had given it new purpose. With each factory came its warehouses, its employee housing, its neglected but perfectly functional systems for running water and generating heat. They’d managed to spread over several buildings with room for a medical centre, for living accommodations, even spaces for the children they’d rescued to learn and play. Supplies from all over the city came through the tunnel network – from patrons who didn’t wish to fight but nevertheless supported their cause. Physicians, craftspeople and refugees from outside the city could be escorted in safely, under the very noses of those who would persecute them. For a while, they’d had their own little settlement in the very Capital itself. There was no knowing how long that would last now the rebellion had occurred. However they’d already made plans to evacuate if necessary. There were a few more tunnels in the network than even Lux had discovered – ones that betrayed the network’s true purpose. This wasn’t just a secret way to move around between the lower and upper parts of the city. These tunnels were meant to be used in time of siege, as evidenced by the passages from the factories straight out into the farmland outside of the city. At a single flare from him, or one of his trusted circle, they could have everyone safely out of the factories and away from the capital entirely. They’d even collected a number of wagons and carts to expediate the process. Of course those measures were only necessary if the battle started going horribly wrong. As it stood, there would be no need to flee. Not when everything was going exactly to plan.

Stage One was complete. They had got the attention they wanted and Sylas had obtained the prince he needed. As soon as they emerged from the arena, he heard a now-familiar cry of rage. The great armoured nuisance came charging at him once more, sword raised. Sylas whipped himself and Jarvan around, placing the prince between himself and the oncoming storm of blades. Needless to say this stopped the man in his tracks. How did Garen Crownguard keep getting back up? Did that man even feel pain? Sylas had knocked him around plenty, even after he’d dropped multiple feet onto solid earth. His head was bleeding and bruised – was his skull so thick that it added an extra layer of armour?

“Call for a ceasefire and I will,” Sylas told Jarvan, “This battle can be over. We can move onto negotiating with Daddy Dearest if you just give the word.”

“I need hands for that,” Jarvan retorted, glancing skywards. Sylas followed his gaze up to where the griffin riders were still circling overhead. Oh right, they must be the ones blowing those confounded horns.

“Well, get him to then,” Sylas gestured at Garen, who was still staring at them, wide-eyed and conflicted as to what to do.

Jarvan let out a low choked-sounding sigh. He wasn’t taking his defeat very well. Sylas could hardly blame him. He’d known the prince’s armour and weapon were magical from the moment they’d met. Jarvan had never stood a chance. In fact Sylas’ plan had hinged on that fact. Once upon a time, he’d imagined storming the palace with his very angry army of mages. Now however, he had been given the time to think this through tactically. There was no need to prolong the battle, no need for even more people to die, if he could just overcome the prince who trusted him and use his life as easy access to Demacia’s seat of power. Did it leave a slightly bad taste in his mouth? Yes. But he’d tasted far worse.

“You swear to call off your army if we do?” Jarvan asked. His hesitance to believe a word Sylas said was quite evident. Sylas could hardly blame him for that either.

“I swear,” Sylas replied, “I don’t want any more to die as much you do.”

Jarvan let out another one of those choked despairing noises before he straightened up and tried to call to Garen.

“Garen! Can you hear me?”

The Crownguard instantly came charging up to them. Sylas pulled out his knife, holding it before Jarvan’s unarmoured throat, letting him know exactly how much danger his prince was in if he didn’t comply. At the sight of it, Garen lowered his blade and slowed his pace, taking tentative steps towards the pair of them.

“Your highness! What has this brigand-!”

Jarvan interrupted him.

“Garen, call for the Guard to stand down. That’s an order.”

“Your highness?”

“We will stand down,” Jarvan repeated, “And if we stand down, they will. Call for a cease fire. Now.”

Garen Crownguard hesitated for a moment. Perhaps he thought he’d taken one too many head injuries and was dreaming this all up.

“Crownguard,” Jarvan insisted, his tone growing more authoritative, “As your prince, I order you to call a cease fire this instant.”

This seemed to snap the man out of his confusion.

“CEASEFIRE!” Garen bellowed. His voice booming over the sound of the battle with the depth of cannon fire.

“ON THE ORDER OF PRINCE JARVAN, CEASEFIRE!”

He waved his arms overhead for the attention of the griffins, yelling all the while. Sylas raised the arm that wasn’t entirely caught in the chains around Jarvan’s torso and shot three white blasts of magic above his head, careful to avoid any stray wings. Three accompanying blasts issued high above the barracks to their far right, then the archives beyond that, then the forges, then the Royal Gardens… Identical signals, three ice-white streams of light echoed around the palace grounds as he heard members of his own army cry out to stop, to hold position and stand down. As his lights rippled throughout the city, loud horns blasted from overhead in a different pattern to those summoning fresh troops to battle. No doubt the trained soldiers would know the difference between a call for aid and a call to stop. Just as suddenly as it had begun, the battle in the grounds began to fizzle out. Both sides retreated from those they’d been battling with such ferocity just a moment ago. They began to pick up their injured, collect their dead, clustering up into small groups with only the ruined gravel path cutting a divide between them, like two armies separated by a country’s border.

“Basic rules of ceasefire,” Jarvan told Garen weakly, “Tell them, please.”

Garen nodded and began to recite the terms of ceasefire with his mighty boom of a voice. It was all very simple stuff, Sylas thought. Don’t fight unless defending yourself. Don’t raise arms unless provoked. Don’t intentionally provoke the other side or face immediate disciplinary action. Those in command were responsible for the actions of their underlings. Do not impede medical attention or supply lines to either side. Sylas decided he should probably lay down some rules to his side too – just to convince Jarvan that he was committed to this ceasefire as much as he was. His army had all been briefed on the plan, they knew that this ceasefire was part of it, however there was always the chance someone might get hot-headed and seek out revenge.

“Alright!” Sylas proclaimed, giving Jarvan a little push towards the gravel path that was now serving as a boundary of their truce, “I expect you to all follow those lovely rules. Organisers, it’ll be your job to make sure no one gets ahead of themselves. No one else needs to die here today. In fact no one should die here today if we have any chance of getting what we deserve. You all know the plan. The time for battle is over. Now we open up negotiations.”

They reached the path, hundreds of eyes on them as both mages and soldiers took in the sight of the leader of the Mage Army holding their Prince captive. There were cries and murmurs from both sides. Captains gestured for their soldiers to hold back, grabbing would-be heroes by the armour or spears so they didn’t immediately break the peace. There were a few pointless yells of ‘you monster’ and ‘your highness’! from the side of the Royal Guard. Jarvan raised his head as Sylas paraded him down the path, trying to assemble some semblance of pride even through his appearance of defeat. Sylas paused in front of a pair of women in gleaming silver armour that were clearly important enough to have feathers in their helms and pauldrons large enough to make doorways inconvenient. Jarvan clearly recognised them for he immediately took his choice to talk to them.

“Generals, keep your men in line. I am aware how this looks but the mage will not harm me. He is using me as a means to hold council with His Majesty the King. I am no use to him dead.”

“What of the King?” asked one of the Generals, “We cannot allow such a dangerous individual access to-“

“This is why he has resorted to such measures General,” Jarvan cut across her, “Because we would not allow a representative to speak to His Majesty otherwise. This battle, all this death, happened because we would not consider the hundreds of innocent mages who suffer under our current rule. This was all for our attention. To get us to listen. To force us into action.”

“I’d listen to your prince if I were you,” Sylas added, instantly drawing the ire of the two Generals, “Because he’s completely correct. No one else needs to get hurt today. We just need to talk.”

They didn’t look like they believed him but Sylas didn’t really expect them to.

“Send runners to every General and Council Member you can reach. Sends birds if necessary,” Jarvan continued, doing very well at his ‘pretend I’m currently not bound at knife point’ charade, “The King is going to want to hold council. This meeting has been a long time coming.”

Both Generals saluted and instantly started barking commands at their men. It was during this slight pause that Sylas noticed Garen was following a few feet behind them. His blade was lowered, his tail hanging between his legs, as he followed his prince like a loyal dog. His expression was grave and challenging as if he dared Sylas to endanger his prince further. Sylas was frankly surprised he wasn’t growling. As they made their way further up the path, Sylas leant in to whisper in Jarvan’s ear:

“Do you need your trusty guard dog for anything?”

“He comes with us,” Jarvan stated, grimacing at Sylas’ wording, “You’ll need him to convince the guards around the King to get out of the way.”

Sylas glanced over his shoulder.

“Join us, will you? Your prince wants you to come with.”

Garen hurried up, joining their odd little parade down the gravel path. Whilst Garen and Jarvan seemed to be focussing on the reactions of their men, Sylas couldn’t help but hear the occasional laugh and comment from his assembled mages. Some were clearly finding the image of the prince bound and escorted quite amusing. Part of him wanted to join them in their ribbing, another bit of Sylas wanted them to stop that this instant. They deserved this moment of cheer after everything Demacia had put them through. They were owed the chance really, to be able to mock those who had power over them. However, Jarvan wasn’t perhaps the right direction for their vitriol. Sylas had filled in the highest circles of the Mage Underground with details about what the prince was up to in regards to his information gathering and reports. Yet the everyday member wasn’t to know that Jarvan was in fact on their side. Sylas hoped slightly that Jarvan was oblivious to the muttering, the laughter, and the muffled catcalls now being thrown in his direction. Being so openly mocked wouldn’t improve the shame and betrayal he was no doubt feeling. Yet all Sylas could really do was pick up the pace and march their little group up the castle steps, even as his own army chattered behind them.

“Wait for me!”

Four stony faced guards opened the castle doors at their approach. Yet as Sylas, Jarvan and Garen passed into the marble-floored expanse of the Royal Palace, they were interrupted by frantic footfalls and a high-pitched voice full of urgency. Lux slipped through the doors just as they closed behind them, yanking the trim of her capelet free as she sprinted up to join their little procession. Sylas raised an eyebrow at her as she skirted around in front of them to take in the sorry state of her would-be husband. She then rounded on Sylas himself, keeping up with them as they all attempted to stride straight past her. She had to take two steps for every one of theirs, the men around her being much larger of size and longer of stride.

“Why would you do this?!” she exclaimed at Sylas. She was utterly covered in blood, from the tips of her hair to the soles of her boots, thankfully none of it seemed to be her own. She balled her empty hands into fists before pointing an accusing finger up at Sylas’s face. He merely smiled at her failed attempt to look threatening.

“You used me! My gifts! My books! My tunnels! My-my… You _lied_ to-to me and I trusted you! You were my _friend_!”

She had clearly wanted to say ‘magic’ but seemed to think better of it.

“Wait, what?” Garen asked, just about drowning Jarvan’s attempt to sigh:

“He used everyone Lux.”

“Yes, yes, I lie,” Sylas replied, waving his spare hand as if to clear the air of all these pointless, if not completely factual, accusations, “If it makes anyone feel any better, I was never going to get either of you hurt. I do value our bonds that much. I was even going to keep him alive, if things came to that, so you didn’t hate me entirely.”

He pointed at Garen, who was still looking rather bewildered.

“You two know each other?” he asked, staring between Lux and Sylas. “How do you…”

He pointed at Sylas, as if realisation was swiftly dawning upon him.

“That’s Sylas of Dregbourne!”

“Congratulations,” Sylas told him, “You’re catching up.”

“You should be locked up in prison!” Garen stated, “A villainous cur such as you should-“

**“Stop!”**

Garen stopped walking. Stunned in his tracks as both Jarvan and Lux called out to him, in perfect unison. Sylas couldn’t stop the slight warmth that filled his chest as both of them suddenly came to his defence. Even after such betrayal, they were willing to defend his good name? Lux and Jarvan stared at each other as if alarmed by their own synchronicity. There was a moment where everyone, bar Sylas, stood around looking quite startled. Sylas wanted to laugh but he was too busy trying to grasp on why that interjection had meant so damn much to him. Everyone seemed to be stuck in their own thoughts for a moment before Lux suddenly pointed at Jarvan, realised what she was doing, before putting her finger down.

“Did you know about any of this?” she asked, “When you were meeting, did you know this would happen your highness?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be chained up like this,” Jarvan informed her, “This was not part of our plan.”

“Your plan? Meeting?” Garen repeated, “Do…do you know him too your highness? Why do you both know Sylas of Dregbourne? I’m… I’ve missed out on something here.”

“That you have,” Sylas agreed with him, “Why don’t we keep walking and maybe someone will explain?”

They weren’t going to achieve much hanging around in this corridor, however lavishly decorated it might be. Honestly the Royal Palace was meeting Sylas’ every expectation at how absurdly over-extravagant it was. You couldn’t look anywhere without a glimpse of something gold, marble or gold and marble. And everything was just so white! There must be an army employed here just to keep the place gleaming like the back end of a merchant’s vault. The strip of blue carpet down every walkway seemed hardly practical, too thin to provide any warm to the room and too luxuriously soft to provide an adequate doormat. The corridors they had traversed were so empty, Sylas was beginning to doubt whether this part of the castle was even used at all. So much room, so much space for people to live in, just lavishly squandered. After spending months living in the factory district, the very same area of the city he’d grown up in, seeing such excess was frankly sickening and he hadn’t even witnessed the throne room yet.

“So, erm?”

They were walking down another identical marble corridor, having fallen silent with no explanation given. They all seemed to be in their own heads until Lux dared to clear her throat and ask:

“I’m guessing… you two aren’t a thing anymore?”

Sylas bit back the urge to laugh. The noise ended up coming out as a sad sort of grunt. Jarvan looked up at him, his expression a mire of anger and defeat, defiance and hurt. Sylas couldn’t pretend he liked what he’d done to the prince, to what he’d done to _them_ as a pair. Sure he enjoyed tormenting the monarchy. Revelled in sending the entire palace into a panic. He’d especially liked terrifying the aristocratic classes in the run up to this siege. This time last year there would be no difference in his mind between the one who held the title of prince and those he’d labelled ‘the enemy’. This would all be so much simpler if he hadn’t gone and got himself attached to who Jarvan was as a person. Yet he had. And here they were. Despite the time they’d shared, despite all they’d, experienced, felt, confided in each other… Those things did not triumph over his need to free his fellow mages from Demacia’s unique brand of tyranny. Sacrifices were always going to have to be made and better to sacrifice a bond than any more lives.

It wasn’t Sylas or Jarvan who responded to Lux’s question. Instead Garen looked confusedly between all three of them before turning back to his sister.

“What are you talking about Lux?”

Lux immediately looked very awkward. She clasped her hands behind her back and tried to look innocently curious at the architecture around her.

“Lux?” Garen repeated.

Jarvan sighed quietly from in front of Sylas but didn’t seem to want to say anything.

“Well,” Lux tried nervously, upon realising that Garen wasn’t going to drop this, “I was just wondering if, you know, this whole battle had come between them? Because it seems really hard to maintain a romantic relationship after one of you has taken the other hostage.”

Jarvan hung his head as Garen stared at his sister.

“Lux, be careful with your assumptions! You can’t just say such things about His Royal Highness!”

“Garen,” Jarvan finally spoke up, “In this instance, she knows more about what’s going on than you do.”

Garen turned to now gawk at Jarvan and Sylas. He seemed to be struggling to process everything he’d just heard, or at least draw the right conclusion from it. Perhaps he had taken one too many blows to the head after all. Admittedly, the myriad of expressions passing over Garen Crownguard’s face made for excellent entertainment. First shock, then disbelief, then a glimmer of understanding, followed by incredulity, more shock, then a deep inner struggle, followed by a sense of reluctant acknowledgement that something had happened between the three other participants of this conversation that he was completely ignorant of.

“You…your highness… and him?” Garen managed, “How? He’s a…. Why would you…?”

Rude. What happened to that unwavering faith in royalty? Was Garen doubting his prince’s taste?

“What’s more shocking to you?” Sylas asked, “That your prince is into a mage or is into men? Because I thought you might have understood that last one by now big boy.”

“What?” exclaimed Lux, rounding on her brother, “What does he mean Garen?”

Jarvan hung his head in disbelief as Garen went a very un-Demacian shade of red.

“Oh, so she doesn’t know about that,” Sylas laughed, “Please do enlighten her. Nothing to be ashamed of, I’ve been assured that two men appreciating each other’s manly bodies is quite normal in the heat of the-“

“You two…canoodled?!” Lux gasped, interrupting Sylas as everything seemed to click into place. Sylas rolled his eyes as her phrasing. Why couldn’t aristocrats just say ‘fucked’ like the rest of the world?

“We…” Garen managed, “It’s like the mage said, it’s quite normal that occasionally a bout of training might, well…turn in that direction.”

“Ah, so you can agree with me on something,” Sylas told him, “That’s a good start. Though a little awkward perhaps that our dear prince has slept with everyone here except his fiancé. You might think he didn’t want-“

“Can we not!” Jarvan suddenly exclaimed, “Discuss my sex life, whilst I am being brought before my father as a hostage? It is _not_ the time!”

Lux and Garen instantly started making apologies with what they felt was an appropriate amount of bowing and curtseying. Jarvan seemed to have had enough of people talking about him around him, for he shook at his restraints a little and declared:

“Let’s just get this all straight. There’s no one here except the four of us so consider this a private meeting of sorts.”

He was trying so hard to look princely whilst chained up and mostly armour-less, it was quite endearing actually.

“Here’s the full picture, as I understand it,” Jarvan stated, “Everyone just listen unless you have something to add that’s useful or informative, or it’s something you haven’t told me about.”

He addressed that last part over his shoulder at Sylas. Personally, Sylas had no plans to interrupt quite yet, he was interested to see how much Jarvan had pieced together from all this. Though perhaps this explanation would mostly be rehashing what he already knew for Garen’s benefit.

“Lux and I have been visiting Sylas for just over a year now,” Jarvan stated, shooting a look at Garen as he made to open his mouth to say something. He promptly closed it again.

“I went because I wanted to learn more about mages after my father began to soften his stance against magic. The King was talking about changing laws, being more lenient around magic and I wanted to know more. At first, I didn’t want to believe the truth, but I came around. There is nothing instinctively evil about magic and Demacia as a whole has committed much evil in subjugating magic users for so long now.”

Sylas wasn’t going to disagree with him there.

“Lux, meanwhile,” Jarvan continued, “Is a magic user.”

Lux gave a little squeaky noise but she too decided not to disagree. Sylas glanced at Garen, expecting this to be news to him. However his expression was merely set in a stony grimace.

“And I’m going to go as far as to say that the rest of the Crownguards already knew that,” Jarvan stated.

“Pardon?” Lux gasped, “How… They… I’ve been hiding it so much!”

She glanced at her brother who was still not saying anything.

“That’s why they’re so adamant that we be married,” Jarvan stated, “Because if you become a princess, no one is going to dare accuse you of anything. It was for your protection, even if they made us both miserable.”

He too looked at Garen. This seemed to compel him to respond:

“You are correct. It was the solution our aunt felt best suited the occasion.”

“What?” Lux cried, “Just-just because she hates her marriage, means I have to hate mine?!”

“We can talk about that another time,” Jarvan insisted, “When there are fewer pressing matters to attend to. There won’t be a royal wedding whilst the Royal Registry is unaccounted for.”

“You’re both welcome,” Sylas chipped in.

Lux gasped again.

“You stole the registry in the Archive Robbery!” she proclaimed, “Everyone was so confused because what use is that to the mages but… it was useful to you in helping us! You made it so we can’t get married! And-and then the Prince wouldn’t be committing adultery!”

“And then lied to me saying it wasn’t you,” Jarvan added, more to Sylas than anyone else, “However, I do appreciate the gesture, or did appreciate it, considering what has just occurred.”

He understandably sounded conflicted. This seemed to fuel his eagerness to change the topic of conversation.

“I assume Lux was visiting Sylas to gain some knowledge about her magic,” Jarvan continued, “Judging by how Sylas then used it, he’s been storing Lux’s magic away for his own use for quite some time.”

Considering how much he’d had to get his head around today; Sylas was rather impressed. Jarvan must have learned a lot in a short space of time – be it Sylas’ intentions or the fact that Lux was a magic user. His quick thinking and rapid ability to process all of the last year in light of this new information, just given to him, was extraordinary

“In exchange,” Jarvan stated, “Lux was bringing Sylas books, possibly from the Royal Archives. Which is how you then knew where they were to take them.”

He shot that last statement over his shoulder at Sylas.

“You’re not wrong,” Sylas replied simply. If Jarvan had never showed up, he undoubtedly would have got out eventually. Lux was giving him plenty of good information and enough power that he could have broken his way out with time. However Jarvan had gone and made the process so much easier, leaving him with a veritable wealth of light magic to use at a later date. Admittedly, if he’d gone with his original plan of manipulate then bust out, he wouldn’t have had to experience so many conflicting emotions about the whole thing. However, Sylas knew very well that he’d made his bed and now he was going to lie in it. No matter how this little meeting turned out.

The rest of their trip through the castle was mostly Jarvan stating facts that Sylas already knew. Whilst he was certainly doing it for Garen’s sake, explaining how he was trying to come up with a peaceful resolution before Sylas ‘took matters into his own hands’, Sylas couldn’t help but notice that the prince was definitely omitting certain facts. For one, he wasn’t saying anything about how exactly Sylas got out of prison. He got the impression that Jarvan was still feeling immensely guilty about his little act of treason – stealing and using the King’s seal without his knowledge. Sylas thought the seal itself was likely to be a fancy stamp or maybe a signet ring. Nothing to feel that guilty about borrowing. Yet what the seal represented was no doubt plaguing Jarvan’s honour-bound mind. That stamp was the essence of Kinghood and Jarvan had used it without being King, pretending that he was. Sylas didn’t doubt that this was considered an unforgivable crime in the higher parts of society, and Jarvan wasn’t going to be forgiving himself any time soon. Personally, he didn’t think it was that much of a big deal. People forged signatures and seals all the time if it allowed them to achieve the seemingly-impossible.

Jarvan also refused to go into the details about his and Sylas’ relationship. Lux clearly had questions. She had figured them out after all, probably because the White Rooms held such a reputation for being a place where forbidden lovers engaged in equally-forbidden acts. The truth was, he and Jarvan had never spoken about what they were. Never put a label to the fact that they had seen each other once or twice a week since Sylas’ release. Never spoken about why they went for dinners, shared long walks, spoke privately for hours, bathed together, and had a frankly excessive amount of sex whenever they could. Sylas couldn’t blame him for not wanting to talk about it right now. Not in front of his friends, and especially not in the situation he currently found himself in. Jarvan was no doubt questioning everything they had ever shared together, after he’d realised Sylas had lied to him so much. It had been good whilst it lasted. Sylas hoped he could at least agree with that.

Whatever happened between them in the future, there was very much their present situation to consider. Step Two of the Mage Underground’s plan was about to come to fruition, and after step one had gone so well, Sylas couldn’t help but be confident about the next. There was no doubt in his mind that the King would listen. What choice would he have? He could either make good on Jarvan’s assurances that he was sympathetic, or he could watch Sylas push a knife to his only son’s throat. Just because he liked this Jarvan, didn’t mean Sylas had any sympathy for the older one. The man had decades to make Demacia a less terrible place to live in. Even if he had gone soft in his old age, he had still done absolutely fuck-all to act on those sympathies already. Killing him, as punishment for his crimes against his people, was still very tempting. Yet even Sylas had to acknowledge that it was easier to make the changes he wanted with the existing King around. Murdering the man would likely wipe out all the progress he’d made and worsen the reputation of mages overall. So old Jarvan had to live for now. However, Sylas was going to give him so much work to do that maybe it would speed him towards his death bed all the faster. Also, did Kings have a limited supply of names they could use? Surely having two Jarvans got confusing at the dinner table? Was the current King’s father Jarvan number two? Sylas neither knew nor particularly cared. The King had the power he needed. That was the reason he remained on his throne and not buried several feet beneath the ruin of his palace walls.

As they approached the throne room, the palace somehow got even more opulent. The carpets here were threaded with gold in intricate patterns, directing them between gilded statues of men who all looked pretty much the same, except the names on their plinths. Huge jewel-encrusted cases stood between these statues, filled to bursting with enormous flowers and entire branches of leaves. Resisting the urge to knock any of them over, he marched Jarvan and their entourage towards the guards milling around outside the entrance to the throne room. At the sight of them approaching, the guards instantly stood to attention, still too far away to determine that this wasn’t just a routine check-in. Jarvan directed Garen to go speak to them first whilst they waited. Sylas, who had been looking forward to intimidating all of them, felt a little disappointed they were doing this his way. However having power over the King himself would make up for such a small set back. That would undoubtedly feel fantastic. How could it not? Being able to boss around the man who ruled Demacia was like ordering around the country itself. It was the highest form of power in all the land! And as much as Sylas hated tyrants…it would feel really good to have that much control after spending so much time behind bars. Abusing said power was out of the question. Sylas was simply here to get what he and the people of Demacia rightfully deserved. However that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy himself a bit.

Gripping their weapons tighter as they saw their prince in chains, the guards certainly weren’t happy about letting him through the huge set of armoured doors. Yet there was nothing they could do but watch him smirk as he passed by. They sent Garen in first so he could persuade the Royal Guards inside not to immediately attack them. Sylas was supposed to wait until he gave them the all-clear, however he found himself growing too impatient to simply dawdle in the doorway. He gave Jarvan a little push across the threshold as the prince asked:

“Have you actually planned what you’re going to say to my Fa-?“

Jarvan’s voice died in his throat.

Sylas almost walked him straight into Garen who was standing stock-still in the middle of the entrance way. They side-stepped just before collision, just in time for Lux to give a little scream of:

“Your Majesty?!”

Sylas’ plan had been going so well. Everything was falling perfectly into place… until suddenly it wasn’t.

“F-Father?” Jarvan called, his voice cracking as he struggled to take in the sight before him.

The throne room was filled with bodies. Seven figures in full armour were strewn across the marble floor, having fallen in poses of clear suffering as their gauntlets remained clasped around their throats or clutching at their breast plates. One woman’s helmet had rolled off, revealing for her to have died gasping for air. Expression still fixed in place; her skin was now a horrible ghastly white around eyes that had rolled back into their sockets. Blue-tinged lips stretched wide in one last terrified attempt to draw breath. There was no blood on the floor. No signs of a battle. Just seven dead guards and, at the very far end of the room… a figure in robes lay sprawled over the steps leading up to his throne.

“Let me go!” Jarvan cried, tugging at the chains attaching him to Sylas’ manacles, “Sylas, let me go to him!”

Sylas had never heard Jarvan sound like this. Desperate and pleading as he tried to drag Sylas along behind him and make his way across the room. It seemed unlikely that the magic had fully returned to what was left of his armour. Which meant Jarvan was trying to pull that weight, along with the entirety of Sylas and his chains. Whilst there was a slight tug on Sylas’s arms, he wasn’t making much progress getting anywhere. Before Sylas could so much as consider what to do, Jarvan started thrashing. He tore this way and that, as if trying to wrench the chains off him, gaze fixed on the far end of the room.

“Let me GO!”

The prince had never sounded so wretched. He hesitated for a moment, giving Sylas a second’s warning before he tried to run full pelt across the room, attempting to catch Sylas off guard with sheer force. However he only got a few steps before there was a horrible crunching sound from one of his arms. Jarvan bit back a curse before immediately setting his sights on the end of the hall once more. Immediately, Sylas realised he was going to try again. And he was definitely going to break something if he did.

“Sylas, if you have even a sliver of a heart, that’s my _father_ up there!”

Oh fuck it. Sylas knew he could be making a huge mistake here. Jarvan was his leverage. Jarvan was the reason why Garen, Lux and the guards outside couldn’t just turn on him. Keeping Jarvan hostage was part of the plan. Yet talking to the King had also been part of the plan and, well… That wasn’t happening anymore. Letting Jarvan go was a gamble he could pay for with his life but, well, he did at least have something resembling a heart. A father was a father whether he was a labourer or a King. Familial bonds didn’t mean less just because of a title and Jarvan mattered enough to him that…

“Sylas, please, I beg you…”

Jarvan looked like he was on the edge of tears. Even when he was kneeling at Sylas’ feet in agonising defeat, he hadn’t sounded so pained and scared. Oh gods, he was making a mistake, wasn’t he?

Sylas let him go.

No sooner had the last link fallen from his arms, Jarvan was running across the room. Past Garen, past the dead guards, straight up the stairs to the prone form of his father. Sylas also stepped around Garen, slowly following Jarvan but leaving a short distance between them to maintain the illusion of privacy. As he walked up the corpse-strewn carpet, he heard Garen come to his senses behind him. There was no call for back-up, no war cry thrown in his direction. Instead, Garen turned on his heels and headed back the way he came, leaving his sister standing nervously in the doorway behind him. Well, Sylas wasn’t dead yet so he might as well watch over what happened next. Glancing back at the door every now and then he walked up to the steps leading to the throne, leaving a few feet between himself and Jarvan.

The prince had sunk to his knees in front of the limp form of the King. Sylas couldn’t help but note that one of the King’s arms was dangling off the edge of the steps, his hand just as deathly white as the guard’s face. It seemed that the King had fallen victim to the same treatment as his guards. It would be an impossible feat to strangle eight people without causing a fight. A quick glance at every corpse told him that no spell had been at work here, there was no trace of magic left in their bodies. Poison then? Was there a poison that could rob a person of their breath like this? Sylas couldn’t see the King’s face because Jarvan was now leaning over him, clutching at his father’s robes as his shoulders shook with barely-suppressed sobs. The force of Jarvan’s shaking was disturbing the King’s body, making his golden mantle rattle against the marble steps. They both jumped as a series of loud clanks echoed through the quiet of the throne room. The crown, dislodged from the King’s head, rolled and dropped, clattering and clanking until it span to a halt with the same metallic clamour of a dropped metal dish. Sylas stared at it. Only a few inches from his feet, he’d never been so tempted, yet so hesitant, to touch an inanimate object. The Crown of Demacia was at his feet. The symbol, really, of everything he so despised, of a system that had so unjustly persecuted him and his kind for centuries. The urge to step on it was strong. Yet part of him knew it wasn’t the time. If he was here to destroy the King, Jarvan and the institution of monarchy as a whole, he would have absolutely destroyed the crown right here and now. Yet he wasn’t. He’d even decided to keep the King alive to further his own ends. He’d understood that trying to restart everything from the bare bones of society would be impossible. Having the monarchy around was the price they’d have to pay to grant freedom to mages everywhere. Who knew where that plan stood now but… destroying the crown certainly wasn’t going to aid what chance they had left.

Sylas picked up the crown, noting just how heavy the solid gold headwear was. Slowly, so as to not alarm Jarvan in his state of vulnerability, he moved up the steps. Still ever so carefully, he too got down onto his knees, drawing Jarvan’s attention as he placed the crown atop the chest of the King. Jarvan’s blue eyes were wide and full of unshed tears. Trembling from head to toe, he was evidently using an immense amount of willpower not to cry. Did he really need to? After all that he’d been through today, after…this? Sylas hesitated for a moment, knowing there was a good chance that Jarvan might want to punch him in the face more than anything else right now. Yet he worried in vain.

As soon as he silently offered Jarvan his arms, the prince crumpled into them. He clutched onto Sylas’ tunic as he began to cry in earnest. Burying his face in the fabric at Sylas’ shoulder, Jarvan finally allowed the floodgates to open. His shaking became full-body tremors - chest heaving with the force of every sob. Sylas drew him close, putting his arms around him, mindful of the chains and manacles. Somehow the prince seemed smaller in his grief. Sylas was only an inch or two taller, but Jarvan had curled up in his misery, leaning into Sylas like he was the pillar keeping him from collapsing entirely. It had been a long time since Sylas had comforted someone who was grieving. Not since his earliest days in prison when he was still kept with other inmates. Yet he was still going to try his best. Tucking Jarvan’s head into the crook of his neck, he rubbed one hand down the prince’s back in a motion he hoped Jarvan found comforting. If he didn’t, he made no effort to move away.

They must have made an odd sight as Garen returned to the throne room – the Crown Prince crying, embraced by the arms of one who should be his sworn enemy. Garen took one look at them and told the guards he’d brought with them to leave the pair alone. The Royal Guard made quick work of inspecting the bodies lying throughout the room. Canvas stretchers were brought in, each dead guard taken away in state by a solemn procession of their colleagues. Before they would leave, a pale faced man with robes under his armour would inspect them. Sylas caught something about ‘puncture wounds’ as he exchanged a few words with Garen. All seven guards were taken away in this fashion before the stretcher bearers returned, not with a confection of canvas and poles, but a long cloth-covered table. They brought the table up the central carpet, only stopping when Garen signalled them to. A moment of awkwardness ensued where Garen looked at the body of the King and then up at Sylas. Sylas stared straight back at him, shooting pointed looks at the crying Jarvan as if to ask whether this was really the time. Garen simply nodded and had the table set down. The guards filed away back through the door, leaving them and the Crownguards once more.

Everyone who wasn’t Jarvan stared at everyone else until the prince could bring himself to speak again. Whilst this couldn’t have gone for more than a few minutes, it certainly felt like an hour as the level of tension slowly ramped up between them. In Garen and Lux’s eyes, Sylas could still be a threat – he was still holding Jarvan after all. However Jarvan clearly trusted him enough to cry in his arms – something Sylas was going to have to ask about after all was said and done. After his blatant lying, he was as surprised as anyone that Jarvan would trust him like this. The Crownguards clearly didn’t want to disturb their prince whilst he was grieving, but it was clear something needed to be said. So they simply waited until Jarvan had no more tears to shed. Or at least until he managed to pull himself back together, reigning in his need to mourn for another time.

“Garen, report.”

His voice was choked with emotion, but Jarvan eventually managed to pry himself out of Sylas’ arms and wipe his eyes on his shirt. He looked like a mess, but Sylas wasn’t going to say that aloud.

Garen stepped forward, head lowered respectfully.

“Each of the deceased guards have been taken aside to be inspected by the coroner,” he stated, “A preliminary inspection showed that each of the deceased had a small wound, as if from a needle, in what exposed skin could be reached through their armour. The cause of death is thought to be poison at present, though we cannot rule out some kind of magic influence.”

“I can,” Sylas added quietly, “There was no trace of magic on any of them.”

Garen frowned a little, but Jarvan merely nodded.

“I wish to note,” Garen continued, “That when I assigned these guards to this post, there were eight in attendance.”

Oh, well they had a decidedly not-mage suspect then, didn’t they? There had only been seven bodies amongst the guards, which meant their missing eighth guard was likely the assassin.

“Identify the missing guard and track them down,” Jarvan ordered, “As the Head of the King’s Guard, you shall lead this investigation.”

“Of course your highness,” Garen replied with a bow, “I will assemble an investigative force at once. We will not allow-”

“What is happening outside?” Jarvan interrupted, clearly all business, “Have the Generals been brought together? What is the Mage Army doing?”

Garen was momentarily thrown, clearly about to start an impassioned speech about how the perpetrator of this assassination would not get away with their crime.

“The Mage Army has started setting up a camp on palace grounds,” Garen reported, “They have not broken the terms of the ceasefire. Neither have our own troops, who have set up their own watches throughout the grounds, to keep an eye on the mages no doubt. The Generals have begun to convene in a tent provided for such a purpose, not all have arrived yet as some were positioned deep within the city.”

Jarvan let out a deep sigh, running his hands across his face

“I want a runner sent to me as soon as all the Generals have assembled. I’m not giving the same speech twice. Tell those who have already arrived… No, announce to the grounds in general, to both sides, that I will be returning to speak to them all shortly. Say that I believe we can all work together to address the Mages’ just concerns and I…will provide immediate action.”

Garen bowed and departed at once. Lux remained near the doorway, uncertainty all over her features as she took a few steps towards them.

“Your highness, don’t you want to take some time to…to mourn?” she asked.

“There’s no time for that right now,” Jarvan stated, “We must attend to the living first.”

Lux nodded but said nothing to that.

“Lux…” Jarvan continued, “Could you go and find someone who could retrieve my armour? Don’t go poking around the battlefield by yourself.”

“Yes, your highness!” She ran off, leaving only Jarvan and Sylas left in the throne room.

Silence ensued as Jarvan took the moment to compose himself. He was clearly refusing to look at his father’s body, perhaps fearing at the sight of it would break the resolve he was trying to swiftly rebuild for the task ahead. Scrubbing at his eyes, Jarvan took deep breaths as if he was preparing for a run. Sylas could only imagine that delivering an impromptu speech to hundreds was no less taxing than going for a sprint in too-heavy armour. Perhaps even more so after everything Jarvan had already gone through today. He wouldn’t have blamed him if he’d needed to take some time. Though if Jarvan had spent too much time in mourning, he may have got impatient for the aforementioned change. However, thankfully, the prince seemed to share his sentiment that the still-living should come first. The dead didn’t stop being dead after all. There was a time for mourning and then there was a time for action. Still, Jarvan should probably find some time later to process his loss.

“Sylas,” Jarvan said, not looking at him but clearly wanting his attention.

“Yes?”

“After…after I speak to everyone, I’m going to need you to organise about ten representatives of the Mage Underground to speak their behalf at council. Please choose those who you would feel would garner the most respect and influence over those around them.”

“Already sorted,” Sylas informed him, “They’re waiting in a safe location in the Higher District. I’ll have a signal sent when its safe for them to come.”

“Right, good,” Jarvan murmured, sounding slightly distracted as he worked through what was clearly a list of concerns in his head.

“You can give me the full list later,” he continued, “But what were your most immediate and actionable demands for my-my father. What do the Mage Underground want changed this instant?”

Sylas may not have got the audience with the King he’d planned for, but an audience of sorts still happened in that morbidly quiet throne room. The list of demands had been months in the crafting, but he made sure to go slowly. Clearly stating and explaining each in turn so Jarvan would be able to process and talk through every one despite the grief and exhaustion he was no doubt feeling. It wasn’t the grandiose meeting Sylas had anticipated, and he didn’t particularly enjoy himself. His dreamt-up version of this situation had the King on his knees, agreeing to everything he said as he held Jarvan at knife-point. There was a lot of shouting, posturing, and demanding on his side, and a lot of prostrating and apologising on the King’s. However the reality was much quieter as Jarvan simply listened, nodded, and understood. In a way, this was better for Sylas’ goals, even if the King was dead. He didn’t need to convince Jarvan. Jarvan was already on his side and, well… He could only assume Jarvan was going to be the new King before very long. In a very roundabout way, he had the King on his side. Just not the King he’d anticipated.

By the time a runner came back to tell the prince all his Generals were ready, Jarvan was looking a lot more composed. His grief had been obscured by a stony façade that grew ever more serious with every step he took back through the palace. Sylas saw no need to tie him back up as they left the throne room – allowing a small team of guards to finally retrieve the King’s body. Jarvan wasn’t quite the imposing figure he cut on the battlefield without all his armour. However there had now been sufficient time for some of the enchantments on the remnants of his armour to renew. Treading with a much lighter step, Jarvan was no longer fighting to move as he led Sylas back the way they’d come. The return journey was silent. Every time Sylas checked on Jarvan, he was met with that grim mask of an expression. Bloody, dishevelled, and missing his weapon and much of his armour, Jarvan looked very much like he’d stepped out of a warzone. His expression didn’t even change as they stepped out into the open air. From atop the steps, Sylas could clearly see the two camps forming in the palace grounds. A large white tent had been set up on the army’s side, Demacian flags streaming in the wind whilst a collection of heavily armoured individuals clustered inside. The rest of the soldiers were either sitting or standing in their troops, muttering amongst themselves as their wounds were bandaged and waterskins passed down the lines. His own army were no less prepared. A series of small canvas structures had been erected to supply medical attention to those who had been harmed during the fighting. A series of campfires had been set up, over which large pots had been set to boil to provide clean warm water to the medics inside. They had kept most of the healers away from the initial battle for this purpose. Whilst many were willing to fight, there was no need to put them in harm’s way and lose them before their talents were required. The mage side of the gravel path included the hole they’d arrived through, meaning the most injured and vulnerable could have already been evacuated. He attracted the attention of one of the upper circles as he reappeared with Jarvan. A quick hand signal told them to go ahead with summoning their chosen representatives.

Unsurprisingly, the prince’s return caused quite the stir. They immediately attracted the attention of the Generals in the tent. They filed out to watch as a cluster of guards formed around the bottom of the steps to shield their prince off from the masses. The resting soldiers stood to attention, assembling rank and file as they helped their companions to their feet. Needless to say the sudden shift in attention, didn’t go unnoticed by the mages. Those not essential in treating the wounded also filed out, filling their allotted space with a sea of upturned faces. Jarvan hadn’t told him to move, so Sylas stood level with the prince atop the steps up to the palace. A few of the Generals were giving him dirty looks but Sylas had never felt more like a leader. Standing beside the prince as he made his speech was a statement all in itself. It was clear the mages below appreciated his boldness, many pointing and whispering as their leader stood confidently beside Demacia’s prince. Jarvan meanwhile was communicating something via hand signals to his Generals. One pulled out a large silver war horn and gave three commanding blasts.

The grounds fell eerily quiet.

Jarvan took a deep breath.

“Soldiers, Citizens, Brave Peoples of Demacia! We find ourselves at the changing of an era!”

His voice was incredibly loud, but he didn’t sound like he was shouting. This was the tone of a man accustomed to giving speeches, far bolder, authoritative yet in an entirely calm and composed fashion. Sylas found himself wondering how many other speeches Jarvan had had to improvise like this.

“And whilst we stand at this crossroads, it would be amiss of me not to keep you informed of the tragedy that has struck at our nation today,” Jarvan continued, “I have the immense and terrible duty to inform you all that, King Jarvan Lightshield the Third, is dead.”

There was a ripple of shock and disbelief throughout the crowds. A few of the soldiers immediately took up arms, making moves towards the mage army before their superiors stopped them.

“This tragedy!” Jarvan called, his voice raising to stop any further action, “Does not look to be the fault of any party involved here. Upon returning to the throne room to start our negotiations, we discovered that the King and his guards had been slain without the exterior guards even being made aware of the assassin’s presence. Due to a swift inspection of the coroner, and the absence of one of the King’s personal guards, we already suspect who is responsible, and their method has been confirmed to be a deadly poison. No magic was used in this horrific incident. This was the work of an imposter in the Royal Guard’s ranks, an imposter who exploited this chaos for a chance to strike at the heart of this nation.”

This clearly wasn’t the speech the assembled crowd was expecting to get. Many of the Demacian soldiers took off their helmets, clutching them to their chests in a sign of respect for the dead. Many of Sylas’ army had the presence of thought to look mournful, but he could feel the tension mounting on the grass beneath them.

“A time to mourn the King will come,” Jarvan promised his own men, “But I believe with all my heart that my father would have us rally together in the wake of his parting, rather than deepening the divide that he was never given time to amend. In his final years, his Majesty became increasingly aware of the great inequality that has corrupted even the finest among Demacian Society. It seems only respectful, to what great efforts he made in his lifetime, and to what great efforts he had yet to complete, to create the sort of Demacia that he would have been proud to call his kingdom. This means rooting out that corruption he so feared. Denying the very worst of what has become so commonplace within our walls. Whilst I would rather enact this with his blessing rather than in his memory, I truly believe that the time for Change has come.”

A few of his Generals were now looking rather confused, even as they tried to keep up their expressions of grief and respect.

“This battle,” Jarvan continued, his speech picking up in pace and volume, “The conflict that has rocked our city over the last few months. The rioting. The failure of our prison system. These were all inevitabilities – symptoms of a Demacia weakened and rotten with an order that no longer serves the needs of its people. A Demacia that would rather discriminate and persecute than maintain a nation worth being proud of. We have become the sort of culture that other nations look down upon – they mock our ignorance, our unwillingness to embrace difference, our need to prescribe our citizens’ lives by the conditions of their birth! How did it come to this? Our shining white walls were once a beacon of progress and opportunity. Our emblem, a sign that through the strength of your conviction and the commitment of your efforts, you could any reach any height you dreamt of! Yet look at what Demacia has become. We imprison, torture, murder, innocent children because they were born with a skill they do not understand! We arrest medics and midwives, persecute honest labourers and hardworking soldiers alike for doing their duties, for helping others with a force we lawmakers do not understand, but one that could have saved so many lives if left unfettered and free. We remain an unjust and barbaric nation, standing against everything our forefathers fought for, as long as we continue down this path of needless persecution. From this day onwards, the magic-using people of Demacia will be treated as that, People of Demacia. With all the rights, allowances and access to fair and equal treatment that every citizen of Demacia deserves!”

There was a sudden outbreak of cheers and applause from the mage side of the path. Part of Sylas could barely believe what he was hearing. If someone had told him this would be happening a year ago, he would tell them they were insane. To hear these sorts of words coming from the Crown Prince, or soon-to-be King, of Demacia felt like particularly wonderful dream. Yet he was! Standing here, right next to the very man making such glorious statements. This was real! They had done it! Change was coming.

“Henceforth, those who can use magic will be judged by their deeds not by their existence,” Jarvan stated, “Just like every other free citizen of our nation. As of this afternoon, the institution known as the Mageseekers will be disbanded. Troops belonging to this organisation will be given the chance to retrain for the military, under close supervision that they do not fall back into their previous duties. Going forth it shall be illegal to discriminate on the ground of possessing magical ability. Citizens will be punished by law for acts of aggression against magic users with the same severity as any other sort of discrimination within these walls. Of course there is still plenty of other action the Crown must take to even touch upon making amends for the immense suffering Demacia has subjected its citizens to. That is why I shall be inviting a council of representatives from the Mage Alliance to meet with lawmakers and generals serving the Crown, and together we will draft up new laws, new measures, new agreements to create a better, more equal Demacia going forth.”

Jarvan turned deliberately towards the mage-occupied side of the grounds. The cheers and applause that was rippling across the grass suddenly grew very quiet.

“I understand that actions speak far louder than the words of one man who spent most of his life blind to the suffering happening right under his nose. Yet over the last year, my eyes have been opened to the sheer evil that has been wrought you and your predecessors. Please allow me, Prince Jarvan Lightshield the Fourth, to apologise to the magic users of Demacia on behalf of the Crown, my late father, and my ignorant predecessors. I am sorry. We, as the ruling authority of Demacia, are sorry. And we, with your guidance, will bring about the change you all truly deserve.”

Jarvan bowed, low. Sylas could barely breathe in shock as the prince got down on one knee, bowing to the army of mages before him. The grounds were silent at this reverent gesture. Generals, soldiers and mages alike were covering their mouths, stifling gasps and startled cries. Sylas spotted Garen through the crowd, staring at his prince wide-eyed. Lux was beside him, openly crying as Jarvan ever so slowly returned to his feet.

“We begin at once,” Jarvan proclaimed, “All Generals and Council members, report to the war room. Mage Alliance, please select your representatives and join us in one hour.”

He took another deep breath.

“The process will be long, and I am sure the ignorant will attempt to oppose us. However, we are Demacian. We do not stop, we do not falter, we do not rest until justice is upheld. We will forge a better Demacia. And that journey starts now.”


End file.
